


Countdown

by Dawn (sunrize83)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen, Various through season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 21:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16462385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrize83/pseuds/Dawn
Summary: When an unknown assailant injects Mulder with a deadly toxin, he has 72 hours to find a cure.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My very first fanfic. Originally posted in 1999.

Hegal Place - Apt. 42  
Alexandria VA  
12:03 a. m. 

Scully closed the laptop and sighed, removing her glasses to massage the  
bridge of her nose. Finished. It had taken five hours, a pizza, four  
cans of soda, and a bag of chips, but the backlog of paperwork that had  
been cluttering the X-Files office was completed. Now Skinner could stop  
riding them every moment they weren't in the field on a case. She  
slipped the stack of files into her briefcase and rose, stretching her  
arms above her head and groaning a little in satisfaction when her spine  
cracked. She and Mulder had been seated on his couch, hunched over the  
files for what seemed an eternity, and her muscles were protesting. 

Speaking of which... Scully scanned the apartment for her missing partner.  
He'd gotten up when she'd closed the last file, carried the pizza box  
and empty soda cans into the kitchen, and promptly disappeared. 

"Mulder?" she called. "I'm heading out now." 

He emerged from his newly reclaimed bedroom a moment later clad in  
sweats and running shoes, laces untied and straggling. "Hang on a  
minute, I'll walk you down," he offered, propping his left foot on the  
coffee table so that he could tie his shoe. 

Scully suppressed a grin. Mulder was the epitome of a bachelor, from the  
pile of dishes that seemed to perpetually reside in his sink to the  
dirty clothes that presumably hit the floor wherever he shed them. She  
watched with amusement as the right shoe received the same treatment.  
Amazing there weren't tread marks on that table. 

Her partner looked up in time to catch her ghost of a smile. "What?" he  
said defensively. 

"Nothing. You're going running now? Isn't it time for bed?" 

It must have been fatigue - she knew the moment the words passed her  
lips that she'd left herself wide open. Might as well paint a target on  
her chest for this one. 

Predictably, Mulder leered. "Oooo, Scully. Is that an offer?" 

Scully arched an eyebrow, determined to regain the edge. "Mulder, when I  
make the offer, you won't have to ask," she replied in a sultry tone. 

His expression was priceless. Mulder was the perfect example of the old  
saying "he can dish it out but he can't take it." Give him the smallest  
opening for innuendo and he was right there, but turn it back in his  
direction and he was quickly rendered speechless. Now was no exception. 

"Uh...you ready to go?" he asked, turning to scoop up his keys and flick  
off the lamp. 

Scully hid her smirk while she shrugged on her coat, figuring he'd  
suffered enough. "Ready," was all she said. 

Mulder had scooped up her briefcase before she could stop him and was  
out the door. Though she could easily have handled both laptop and  
briefcase, Scully stifled her feminist side and let it go. For Mulder,  
such gestures were not chauvinism, but an outgrowth of good manners that  
she could only assume were instilled by his mother. Trying to buck the  
conditioning was just a waste of time. 

She followed him into the elevator, discreetly watching him as they  
descended to the main floor. Things had been rough lately -- who was she  
kidding, things were always rough for them -- and she'd seen the  
weariness on her own face when she looked in the mirror. Mulder, though  
she had to admit he filled out a pair of sweats quite nicely, also  
showed the strain. His eyes were shadowed, and while he leaned against  
the wall in what appeared to be a relaxed posture, she knew him well  
enough to see the underlying tension in the set of his shoulders and the  
tapping of his foot. 

The doors slid open, and soon they were both standing beside her car in  
the chill night air. Scully unlocked the door and put first her laptop  
and then the briefcase onto the empty passenger seat before sliding  
behind the wheel. There was a slight pause as Mulder leaned in the open  
door, and she regretted the current of tension that still hummed between  
them -- tension that had run high during the ordeal with Cassandra  
Spender, fueled by their polar opinions of Diana Fowley. The chasm that  
had opened between them had begun to close, and their time spent  
together tonight had gone a long way toward continuing the process.  
Still, the occasional awkward moment crept up. 

"Be careful going home," Mulder said, his hazel eyes looking almost  
black in the dim lighting. 

Warmed by his concern, Scully favored him with a smile. "I will. And  
don't you run too long. You look tired, Mulder, get a decent night's  
sleep for once." 

"Yes, Mom," he said, rolling his eyes, but she knew deep down inside he  
was pleased. One thing she'd learned about Mulder early on: he might  
moan and groan if she fussed over him, but inside he secretly ate it up.  
Scully suspected he'd received little enough of that kind of attention  
while growing up. 

He shut the car door and stepped back, arms folded across his chest, to  
watch as she pulled away from the curb and drove down the deserted  
street. As Scully looked up to catch his reflection in the rear-view  
mirror, a sudden chill ran down her spine and her arms broke out in  
gooseflesh. She brought the car to a stop and spun around to gaze over  
her shoulder, but he had already turned and begun jogging in the  
opposite direction. 

Someone's just walked over my grave, her mother would say. 

Scully hesitated a moment longer before gripping the steering wheel once  
more and resuming the drive toward home. The icy sensation faded, and  
she tried to chuckle at her foolishness. 

"Mulder, you're starting to rub off on me," she said aloud, her voice  
sounding strained in the silence. "This can't be good." 

*Something is wrong.* 

The little voice in her head was faint but insistent. 

"I need some sleep, that's what's wrong," she muttered. And when the  
little voice refused to be stilled, she turned on the radio and blotted  
it out. 

Alexandria  
12:53 a.m. 

Mulder turned toward home feeling tired but content. The evening was  
crisp and clear, a full moon providing plenty of illumination for those  
areas lacking sufficient streetlights as well as a peaceful atmosphere  
for his thoughts. Thoughts that mainly consisted of Scully. 

The name conjured up a clear picture of his auburn-haired, diminutive  
partner, blue eyes snapping angrily when he did something that pissed  
her off, or shining with warmth when he somehow managed to exceed her  
expectations. There was no middle ground for them. Their partnership  
either burned like the brightest star or froze like the arctic  
wasteland. Lately, things had been decidedly frigid. 

The power he and Scully had to bring out the very best or the very worst  
in each other never ceased to amaze Mulder. These past few months had  
certainly been the latter. Scully's failure to support him before the  
OPR committee had cut him far more deeply than she would ever know; a  
betrayal of all they'd endured during the incidents in Dallas and the  
Antarctic. He'd literally gone to the ends of the Earth for her, yet she  
refused to even meet him halfway in that room full of self-important  
bureaucrats. The memory still stung. 

And he had to admit he'd allowed the hurt and anger to fester, hiding  
the bitterness below the surface until it welled up in his own form of  
betrayal -- his refusal to acknowledge the validity of Scully's  
suspicions about Diana. Now you know what you did to me, Scully, he'd  
wanted to say. How does it feel? 

Recalling her face shamed him even now. He should have realized that his  
petty attempt to hurt Scully back would only backfire. The coolness that  
had hovered between them turned downright frigid, resulting in too many  
snappish retorts and sarcastic remarks. 

Somehow, they'd begun to rebuild what had broken between them. Mulder  
wasn't sure he remembered who had been first to hold out the olive  
branch, and he really didn't care. It was enough that affection once  
again replaced irritation, and forbearance substituted for impatience.  
Tonight had been like old times; the easy banter mixed with business  
that made working with Scully not just rewarding, but fun. He felt a  
calmness of spirit that had been missing, and embraced it gratefully. 

His thoughts thus occupied, he quickly completed the six-mile loop he  
normally ran, and before he realized it he was in front of his apartment  
building. He took a moment to catch his breath, hands on his knees,  
breath escaping from his lips in small puffs of vapor, before  
straightening up to climb the stairs. He'd just grasped the handle of  
the door when a faint scuffling sound alerted him that he was not alone.  
Mulder turned quickly, right hand reaching for a gun that wasn't there.  
Two large shapes loomed up from behind him, faces hidden behind ski  
masks. 

Trouble. 

It was all he had time to think before a sharp pain tore through his  
head and the world exploded in a blinding white light, then enveloped  
him in blackness. 

Mulder awoke to the rough, pebbled texture of concrete beneath his  
cheek. He was freezing. It felt as if the cold penetrated every bone in  
his body. With a little effort he was able to pry his eyelids open to  
take in his surroundings. It was with more than a little surprise that  
he realized he was lying in front of his apartment building, not five  
feet from the front door. His head felt as if someone had tried to  
bisect it into two parts, and there was a warm stickiness on his cheek.  
But worse than the physical pain was the blank hole in his short term  
memory. He had absolutely no idea how he'd gotten here. 

Steeling himself against the pain he knew would follow, Mulder pushed  
with hands attached to rubber arms, easing his body into a sitting  
position. As expected, the pounding in his head escalated, and the world  
tilted crazily, as if he'd just played the child's game of spinning in a  
circle until too dizzy to stand. His stomach tried to climb out of his  
mouth, but contented itself with merely ejecting the pizza and sodas  
he'd consumed for dinner. 

When he was able to stop retching, Mulder closed his eyes against the  
dizziness and crawled to the door, using the handle to haul him upright.  
This time, with sheer determination, he was able to fend off the nausea  
as he leaned weakly against the cool glass. His thought processes felt  
as if someone had given his brain a good stir, but one concept swam into  
focus. 

Scully. Got to call Scully. 

Mulder had no idea how much time passed as he made his way back up to  
his apartment. It felt like years. The dizziness was so severe, he  
simply resorted to closing his eyes and feeling his way along the wall  
once he reached his floor. He had a moment of panic when, after making  
it so far, he seemed incapable of manipulating his key into the lock.  
The key finally slid home, and he practically sobbed with relief as he  
stumbled inside. His cell phone lay on his desk beside the computer, and  
he sank into the desk chair even as he punched in number one. 

The phone rang four times, causing his heart to stutter, before he heard  
a click followed by her voice, heavy with sleep. 

"'Lo?" 

His own lips and tongue felt thick and uncooperative. "Scully," he  
slurred, the sound of his own voice reverberating in his head until the  
pounding threatened to rob him of all thought. 

"Mulder?" She was instantly alert, her voice sharp with alarm. If he  
hadn't been hurting so much, Mulder might have found it amusing that she  
could undergo such a rapid transformation. 

He tried to continue speaking, but it was becoming harder and not  
easier. "Scully. Need help." 

"Mulder, where are you? Are you at home?" Brisk, cool-headed Scully  
taking over, any anxiety relegated to the back of her mind. 

It comforted him immensely and he nodded, stupidly forgetting that she  
couldn't see him. Nodding was a bad idea. 

Black spots danced across his vision and a buzzing sound filled his  
ears. All he could do was echo her words, and add one of his own. 

"Home. Hurry." 

He dropped the phone onto the desk and cradled his head on his folded  
arms, struggling to remain conscious. He didn't need to hear her reply. 

It was Scully. She'd come. 

Emergency Room  
George Washington Medical Center  
3:49 a.m. 

Scully paused outside curtain area two for a moment, just watching him.  
Mulder's eyes were closed, but his face was far from peaceful. She knew  
him well enough to recognize the pain lines around his eyes and mouth,  
and his skin looked unnaturally pale and chalky under the unforgiving  
fluorescent lights. He now sported a white bandage just below his  
hairline on the right side of his head. 

A grade three concussion, the doctor said. The CT scan looked good, but  
he'd likely be irritable and dizzy for awhile yet. Could have been  
worse, though. Much worse. 

Scully shivered, shutting her eyes as a vivid image of how she'd found  
him flashed through her mind. She'd reached his apartment in record time  
after throwing on the first items of clothing she could grab (which  
explained the one blue sock and one black sock) and driving like Al  
Unser. 

His door hung ajar, the sight causing chills of fear to scamper up and  
down her spine. Mulder was the most paranoid person she knew -- well,  
other than the Gunmen, but they existed in a class by themselves. He  
would never leave the door open unless... 

Refusing to allow her imagination to replace reason, she'd pushed  
through, eyes scanning the living room. His desk chair was overturned,  
but everything else looked pretty much as it had when she'd left. But no  
Mulder. 

A small sound led her to the bathroom where she found him crumpled on  
the tile with his head pressed against the cool porcelain of the toilet,  
in which he'd very obviously been sick. Shivering, only semi-coherent,  
and bleeding from a nasty gash on his forehead, he looked horrible.  
Still, at that moment one thought eclipsed all others: 

*He's alive!* 

And on the heels of that: 

*I can deal with the rest.* 

The sheer, giddy sense of relief was overwhelming. 

"See anything you like?" 

Mulder's voice, raspy and weak, wrenched Scully from her reverie with  
the force of a blow and her eyes snapped open. She blushed, feeling  
guilty but unsure why. Mulder's eyes, she noticed now, were at half-mast  
but still attempting a leer. Despite her mild embarrassment at being  
caught studying him, her heart warmed at the return of the real Mulder.  
He must be doing better. 

"How do you feel?" she asked, walking over to the bed. Her physician's  
eyes assessed his condition while waiting for a reply. His right pupil  
was still dilated, but he focused on her easily and appeared lucid. The  
nausea, too, had passed -- he hadn't vomited again since his apartment. 

"My head hurts like hell, I still have a black hole in my memory, and  
this hospital gown is too damn short," he groused, sticking his lower  
lip out in the legendary Mulder pout. "When can I get out of here?" 

Scully's brow furrowed with impatience. "Mulder, were you listening to  
Dr. Wagner? You have a grade three concussion and we have no way of  
knowing how long you were out! He thinks you should be admitted for  
observation." 

"Wagner is over-reacting." 

"I happen to agree with him." 

Dangerous tone, but then he liked living dangerously. "Then *you're*  
over-reacting. Scully, I'm fine. My CT scan was normal, I'm no longer  
disoriented, and my stomach has stopped trying to leave my body via my  
mouth. I want to go home." 

Scully took a deep breath and began counting to ten. She only made it to  
four. 

"Mulder, a clean CT scan does not guarantee that there isn't a problem!  
You have certainly had enough concussions to know that. You need to be  
monitored, awakened every couple of hours..." 

"Sculleee..." 

She hated the power he held over her with that coaxing, little boy  
voice, but resistance was futile. He'd wormed his way into her heart  
long ago, and she'd come to accept it the way she accepted that the sun  
would rise each morning. And there was more. Scully strongly suspected  
that Mulder's emotionally-distant parents had indulged him very rarely,  
if ever, once Samantha disappeared. Though plenty of times she wanted  
nothing more than to shake some sense into him, she also found herself  
exercising tolerance whenever possible. What was it her mother used to  
say? *You've got to pick your battles, Dana.* This wasn't one of them. 

"Then you spend the night on my couch," she said, her blue eyes  
narrowing in warning when he broke into a smile. "And you will put up  
with me waking you every two hours, checking your pupil response, and  
making sure you're coherent without so much as one whine or complaint.  
I mean it, Mulder." 

Mulder returned her glare with one of wide-eyed innocence. "Whine? Moi?" 

Scully snorted and rolled her eyes. "Mulder, your infamous ability for  
getting yourself injured is only exceeded by your propensity for  
moaning, groaning, and making a general nuisance of yourself once you  
start to feel better. Around this hospital, Mulder, you are a legend in  
your own time." 

Her partner feigned a hurt expression, hands clutching his heart.  
"Scully, you wound me." 

Before she could reply, he threw off the sheet and sat up, swinging his  
long legs over the side of the bed. Scully watched him wince, eyes  
squinted against the pain, as he paused to regain his equilibrium and  
wait for the pounding in his head to ease. When he finally slipped off  
the edge, he swayed slightly and she reached out to grasp his elbow to  
steady him. After a moment he nodded to indicate she could let go, and  
walked slowly over to the chair that held the sweats he'd been wearing. 

He hadn't travelled more than four steps, feeling a bit like an old man,  
when he heard the soft chuffing sound of Scully trying to suppress  
laughter. He turned slowly back to face her, careful to avoid any sudden  
movements. Her eyes were sparkling with amusement, and her hand was  
pressed to her lips -- both to hold in the snickering and cover the  
smirk, he assumed. She was currently doing a pretty poor job hiding  
either one. 

"What?" he demanded defensively. 

"You forgot to mention one thing about that gown, Mulder. Not only is it  
too short, it flaps in the back." At this she gave up all pretense of  
disguising her mirth and openly waggled her eyebrows at him. Which was  
totally unfair -- that was his territory. 

Cursing under his breath he reached behind him to gather the gown  
together and proceeded to retrieve his clothing. Scully watched as he  
gathered up sweats, socks, boxers, and shoes, composing herself so that  
she could offer him an eloquent, if insincere, apology. Then something  
on the back of his left leg, just behind his knee, caught her eye, and  
all thoughts of the free show he'd just given her flew from her head. 

"Mulder, what's that behind your knee?" she asked, tone more sharp than  
she'd intended. 

"Huh?" Mulder turned, contorting his body into positions that would have  
been funny if not for the fact that an icy cold fist suddenly clutched  
her heart. 

"Stand still, let me look," Scully said, the authority in her voice  
leaving no room for refusal. She approached him slowly, almost  
apprehensively, and crouched down. Silent, she studied the spot for what  
seemed hours to Mulder, but in reality was only a minute, touching the  
skin with gentle fingers that caused him to shiver in spite of their  
warmth. Finally she rose silently to her feet, face troubled. 

"Scully?" 

Hearing the uncertainty in Mulder's voice, she clamped down on the  
maelstrom of emotions that in the blink of an eye left her gut churning.  
Now was no time to panic, even though the inexplicable nature of the  
attack against Mulder abruptly began to make a horrible kind of sense. 

"It's a bruise, Mulder," she said quietly, forcing her eyes to meet his.  
"From an injection site." 

Mulder stared at her open mouthed, and she saw comprehension slowly seep  
into his gaze. "Are you sure? Maybe..." 

"I'm sure." 

The silence that crashed down around them at her words existed on a  
surface level only. Beneath it a thousand voices all clamored to be  
heard: some shrieking in terror, some ranting in anger, some whimpering  
in despair. Mulder closed his eyes and swallowed with an audible click,  
fists clenching tightly before opening to hang limply at his sides. He  
opened his mouth as if to speak only to shut it a moment later. 

Scully longed to touch him; to lace her fingers with his, run her hand  
over his stubbled cheek, even envelope him in her arms. But what she did  
was to square her shoulders and wrap her doctor persona tightly about  
her like a warm blanket on a cold night. One touch and she might  
fragment into countless pieces. Mulder needed her whole. 

"We have to run some bloodwork, Mulder," she said, pouring the comfort  
of that unrealized touch into her voice instead. "You'd better sit down.  
I'll go and get a nurse." 

"Scully, wait!" 

His words stopped her cold; stopped her before she could leave to search  
for a nurse, stopped her before she could flee. Yet when she turned  
back, Scully saw that he was rendered speechless once again. His eyes,  
though -- those uniquely expressive hazel orbs that showed more by  
subtle changes in shade and intensity than any words could articulate -  
told her everything she needed to know. 

*I'm scared, Scully. I don't understand what's happening to me, and I'm  
not sure I want to find out. I need you with me. Stay.* 

And his unspoken need entwined with her love for him, quenching the  
desire to distance herself as rapidly as it had sprung to life. And  
though she never spoke a word, Mulder obtained what he needed from her  
face. A look of peace stole over his features and he relaxed back onto  
the mattress. 

George Washington Medical Center  
Room 457  
6:42 a.m. 

Mulder drifted in the blurry, soft-focus place he thought of as "in  
between." Not asleep -- he could hear the quiet whisper of the nurses'  
crepe-soled shoes when they passed his door, the murmur of voices close  
enough to be audible but too far to be understood, the rattle of a piece  
of equipment wheeled down the hall. Not awake -- for though he could  
hear all these things they held no significance other than to provide a  
background drone of white noise to soothe him, a surrogate for the  
room's broken television. The in-between place contained no sharp edges  
or bright colors; a muted, Monet state of being where one sensation ran  
into the next and lost all clarity or distinction. 

Thanks to some extra-strength Tylenol and a respite from being poked and  
prodded, the headache had receded from blinding to merely annoying,  
though the muscles in the leg bearing the injection site had begun to  
ache. Scully was off...being Scully. Probably breathing down the  
technicians' necks to be sure his lab tests were handled to her  
satisfaction. 

Glad that for the moment he wasn't the one on the receiving end of her  
temper, he'd taken her threats seriously and stayed in bed like a good  
boy. Though he'd felt certain the apprehension over what had been done  
to him would nullify any fatigue he might feel, the muted lights, quiet  
atmosphere, and sleepless night combined to pull him into a deep sleep  
for a time. Now, unable or perhaps just unwilling to surface completely,  
he drifted. 

An additional presence in the room brought him the rest of the way back,  
sharpening his senses enough to detect another's soft breathing and a  
shuffling of feet. Not Scully -- his radar could detect his partner on a  
level far deeper than simple sight, sound, or smell. A calmness of  
spirit would descend over him in her presence, a sense of completeness.  
Wholeness. This presence emitted a business-like aura, deliberate and  
purposeful. Probably another nurse for another test. 

"Okay, which of my body parts would you like now?" he asked, his eyes  
still reluctant to open. 

"Frankly, Agent Mulder, I can't say I'm interested in any of them." 

Mulder's eyes snapped open and he automatically bolted to attention,  
desperately ignoring the spike of pain the movement provoked. "Sir! I  
thought you were one of the nurses." Realizing that sounded bad on any  
one of several levels, he stammered quickly, "I mean, not that you look  
like the nurses, they're actually all quite attractive.... Uh, that's not  
what I meant either, I..." 

"Mulder stop babbling." 

"Yes, sir." 

He allowed himself to slump back into the pillows while eyeing Skinner  
cautiously. The man was in full AD mode despite the hour; he was  
obviously either on his way to work, or more likely had come to the  
hospital from the Hoover building. 

"Sir? What are you doing here?" Mulder asked, puzzled. 

"I'm here investigating the attack of a federal agent, Mulder. Scully  
called to let me know why you two wouldn't be in today and to fill me in  
on the basics. I stopped by to see how you were doing and to hear your  
version of events." 

Mulder snorted, shifting his leg in an attempt to relieve a painful  
muscle cramp. "What version? I can't even remember anything after Scully  
and I left my apartment. There's nothing but a big void until I woke up  
on the front step of my building and tried to puke my guts up. 'Fraid  
you made a wasted trip." 

Skinner ignored the insolence in Mulder's tone, studying him until he  
could see through the attitude to the complex emotions hidden  
underneath. Anger. Frustration. Fear. His voice when he replied was  
mild, though spoken in the typical Skinner tight-jawed style. 

"What do the doctors say? Do they think it will come back to you?" 

"They did when they believed it was a side effect of the head injury.  
Now..." Mulder clamped down on the flood of dangerous feelings that  
wanted to break free. This was not only his boss, but also a man he  
respected and admired. There had been very few people in his life about  
which he could say the same. Too few. And his own father wasn't one of  
them. 

Skinner must have sensed that his psyche was a little raw. He looked  
away, the slight twitch of facial muscles signaling his frustration.  
"Mulder, we *will* find out who is behind this and why. I've already  
sent a couple agents to your apartment to check the scene, and..." 

If Skinner said anything else Mulder didn't hear it. His eyes were  
riveted on Scully, who had appeared in the doorway. She didn't have to  
say a word, her face told him everything he needed to know. Scully's  
expression as her eyes locked onto his was...shattered. 

Skinner followed Mulder's gaze to Scully, stepping back so that she  
could approach the bed. He watched silently as she slipped her tiny hand  
into Mulder's large one, never breaking eye contact. He'd seen this  
woman in just about every situation imaginable -- eyes sparking with  
fury as she pointed a gun at him, full of compassion when he'd nearly  
died from a gunshot wound, shadowed with weariness and pain when cancer  
had nearly stolen her life. But he'd never seen this, and viewing it now  
caused the muscles in his chest to constrict until he could hardly draw  
a normal breath. 

*My God. She's barely holding it together right now.* 

"Scully." 

It was a single word, just a name spoken, but rich with layer upon layer  
of meaning. Scully's hand tightened around Mulder's, but though her eyes  
glistened with tears not a single drop spilled down her cheek. Mulder's  
face was momentarily unguarded, naked in its fear and vulnerability,  
transparent with complete and undiminished trust. The intimacy shared in  
that moment was stronger than if they'd been kissing, and Skinner  
averted his gaze, feeling oddly voyeuristic. 

"It's all right. You can tell me." Mulder's voice was steady, calm. 

He'd brought the walls back up just a bit, more to ease Scully's  
distress than his own. 

"Dr. Wagner is coming as soon as he finishes his rounds..." 

"Scully." Gently, just a name, but it stopped the flood of words as  
abruptly as if he'd screamed it. When he saw her grasp for her  
composure, and succeed, Mulder continued. 

"I already know it's bad news. You're my doctor, Scully. The only one I  
want. The only one I trust. Please. I need to hear this from you." 

Again the connection opened between them, and after a brief hesitation,  
Scully nodded. Mulder could see her square her shoulders, trying to find  
some of the clinical detachment she'd learned in med school and  
perfected during the last six years on the X-Files. He'd almost  
forgotten about Skinner until their boss cleared his throat, looking  
just a bit discomfited. 

"I'll be outside," he said gruffly, but Mulder stopped him before he  
could turn to leave. 

"Sir, please stay. I think you'll need to hear this too." 

Scully took a deep breath and blew it out, pursing her lips. "I'm not  
sure how to say all this," she admitted, brow knotted in irritation at  
her own lack of eloquence. 

"Honestly. Don't hold back, Scully. I want it straight, no pulling  
punches." Mulder kept his tone flat -- he'd developed a little  
detachment of his own the past six years. The past twenty-six years. 

"The preliminary analysis of your bloodwork shows a toxin, Mulder. A  
neurotoxin." 

"A poison?" 

Scully nodded sharply, eyes narrowed. "But unlike any we've ever seen.  
The closest comparison I could make would be the venom of a black widow  
spider. Do you know anything about them?" 

"Just that they can be fatal," Mulder replied, face pale and incredibly  
still. 

"Okay, in a nutshell -- everyone has substances in the brain known as  
neurotransmitters whose job is to carry chemical messages from one nerve  
to another. One of the four main groups of neurotransmitters is  
acetylcholine. To put it simply, a signal travels the length of a nerve  
until it reaches the end, where it must make the jump to the next nerve  
or muscle cell. Transmitters like acetylcholine act like a bridge for  
the signal. The black widow spider toxin targets the junction between  
nerve and muscle cells where the nerves control muscle contraction. It  
causes a massive release of acetylcholine to the nerve terminals whether  
or not the brain has told them to fire. Since there's only a finite  
amount of acetylcholine, the supply is eventually used up." 

Mulder licked dry lips. "And?" 

"And the muscles can no longer contract." Scully's doctor façade  
flickered, and she bit savagely at her lip. "Ultimately - respiratory  
paralysis, then death." 

Mulder seemed to be struggling to digest this, so Skinner spoke the  
question foremost on his mind. "You said that this toxin is 'like' black  
widow venom. Can't you use the same antidote?" 

That broke Mulder from his private musings and he looked at Scully  
hopefully, only to withdraw again when she shook her head. "'Like' is  
the operative word. The method of action is similar, but this toxin was  
designed in a lab, not by Mother Nature. A spider bite generally begins  
to intensify after about three hours, and if there are no complications  
can run its course in about two days. This stuff seems to exert itself  
exponentially. Its initial symptoms begin more slowly but will build  
rapidly, like a ball rolling downhill. Producing an antidote first  
requires that we know exactly what's in this stuff, and in what  
proportions. We need a pure sample of the toxin, and we can't get that  
second hand from Mulder's blood." 

"You said ultimately paralysis," Mulder said quietly. "What comes first?  
Straight, Scully." 

Scully studied the floor tiles for a moment, the backs of two fingers  
pressed to her lips. It didn't work. Mulder could still see them  
quivering. A deep breath again, and only a slight tremor marred her  
smooth alto. "Pain progressing from the injection site (Mulder's visible  
flinch was perceived by both Skinner and his partner), severe abdominal  
cramps, nausea, tremors, labored breathing and speech, convulsions..." 

Mulder closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. "God." 

"I've sent a blood sample to the bureau lab. They're in way over their  
heads here," Scully continued, slipping her hand into his once more.  
"With any luck they'll be able to come up with something more concrete." 

Mulder shook his head. "Luck, Scully? When has that ever been a  
commodity we could count on?" His sardonic smile faded. "How long?" 

Scully blinked slowly, sighed. "My best guess would be 72 hours from the  
time of exposure. Maximum." 

Mulder nodded, his focus turning inward. "That leaves us roughly 66  
hours for us to find whoever injected me and locate a sample of the  
toxin," he said, more to himself than Scully or Skinner. 

Scully began to sputter. "*US?* Are you out of your mind? *You're* not  
going anywhere! The best thing you can do to fight this is rest and let  
them try some of the conventional treatments -- calcium gluconate or the  
black widow antiserum. Skinner and I..." 

"No!" In a heartbeat fury replaced detachment. Mulder sat up rigidly,  
ignoring the shooting pains in his leg in favor of the all-consuming  
indignation that washed over him. "This is *my* life, Scully, and I'll  
be damned if I'm going to spend what little time I may have left rotting  
in this hospital room! I am sick to death of being manipulated by forces  
beyond my control, of them messing with my body and messing with my  
head! If you want me to fight this, don't expect me to do it lying on my  
back. I will *not* be powerless anymore, Scully. I will *not* be a  
victim." 

Mulder sank back, panting a little from the exertion of his speech and  
the discomfort in his leg. Scully looked helplessly at Skinner. 

"You've been awfully quiet, sir," she said acidly, lips thin and pressed  
tightly together. 

That slight facial twitch again, and Skinner met her glare calmly. "I  
was just trying to picture you in Mulder's place, Scully," he said  
evenly. "I have yet to conjure up an image of you laying in that bed  
while Mulder and I looked for a cure." 

Mulder snorted, his face lighting up briefly in delight. Irritation  
warred with amusement for control of Scully's face before she finally  
allowed her mouth to curve just a little in a rueful smile. 

"I never thought I'd see the day, Mulder. The tables have turned. Now  
the AD is defending *you* to *me.*" 

Mulder's answering grin was bittersweet. "Must be an X-File." 

Skinner rolled his eyes at that, turning toward the door. "I'm going to  
check in with the agents at your place, Mulder. I'll see you both at the  
bureau once you are released. I'd say we need to concentrate on  
developing a pool of suspects." 

Mulder looked both grateful and tentative. "We, sir?" 

"I told you already, Mulder. This was an attack on a federal agent.  
You'll have the bureau's full resources at your disposal." 

Mulder nodded, unspoken message received. *Even the assistant director.* 

"Thank you, sir." 

"I'll walk you out, sir," Scully said, giving Mulder's hand a squeeze  
before releasing it. "I guess I'd better hunt down Wagner for that  
release paperwork. He's not going to like it." 

"Just shoot him," Mulder said with a hint of humor. "Worked on me." 

She shot him "The Look," an eyebrow crawling up her forehead, before  
following their boss out the door. Mulder's slight chuckle in response  
warmed her only momentarily before the harsh reality of his situation  
crashed into her like a fist to the gut. Skinner saw her begin to  
crumple, and grasped her shoulders, turning her to face him. His grip  
was warm, firm, and somehow comforting, something to anchor her in the  
surrounding turbulence. 

"You going to be all right? He needs you at his back now, Scully. More  
than ever before." 

She nodded, but her expression betrayed her doubts. "Are we doing the  
right thing, sir? In the end, this could give him less time." 

Skinner's voice was steel, but his eyes were kind. "It's not just the  
right decision, it's the only one," he said. "Strip him of the chance to  
determine his own fate, and you strip him of who he is. We have to give  
him the power back, Scully. In the end, it could be all he has left." 

Hoover Building  
X-Files Office  
9:02 a.m.  
64 hours remaining 

"Mulder, it just doesn't make sense. Why now? We just got the X-Files  
back, and we haven't even had time to ruffle anyone's feathers. God  
knows Spender and Diana certainly didn't! What would make the Consortium  
suddenly decide to get rid of you now?" 

Scully perched on the edge of Mulder's desk, arms crossed and a frown  
creasing her forehead. Her partner reclined in the rickety desk chair at  
a seemingly impossible angle, one leg propped up on the desktop. The  
left leg, she realized. He had yet to complain about anything other than  
a lingering headache from the concussion, but every so often she'd catch  
him massaging the thigh muscles of his left leg and grimacing slightly.  
The sight made her heart stutter with fear. For Mulder's sake, she  
pretended not to notice. 

"Maybe it's because we got the files back. You know Smokey did what he  
could to prevent that, first by torching this office and then by  
arranging for his son to take over our work," Mulder argued, eyes  
narrowed and lip thrust out in that stubborn pout of his. 

It was an expression that normally set Scully's teeth on edge. Right  
now, though, she found it impossible to feel anger toward him. A clock  
had taken up residence in her brain -- one that ran backwards. Its  
ticking filled her entire being, penetrating every thought in her head  
and every emotion from her heart. *Time's running out* it said. *This  
moment may be all you have left.* 

"Then why not just shoot you, Mulder? Explain that. Why the elaborate  
method? The man who injected you could just as easily have put a bullet  
in your head. It would have been simpler, with less danger of being  
caught." 

She kept her voice even and reasonable, willing herself not to comment  
on the way he kept fingering his holster. Losing her temper with Mulder  
only made him dig his heels in harder, a truth it had taken her several  
years to uncover. Several years, and countless lost battles. She had no  
intention of letting Mulder go out in a blaze of glory, though at the  
moment he seemed determined to do just that. 

"She's right, Mulder." The deep voice from the doorway startled them  
both. 

Skinner moved into the office, and leaned against the wall. His hands  
were stuffed into his pockets and his shoulders were tense. 

"With all due respect, sir..." Mulder began. 

"Mulder, think about it. You need to step back for a minute, you're  
making this personal." 

Skinner watched as Scully arched one eyebrow and scrutinized Mulder with  
an expression of wry amusement. Mulder, in turn, looked like a little  
boy who had been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.  
Skinner had no idea what he could have said to cause such a reaction. 

Mulder cleared his throat and looked up at him ruefully. "Sorry, sir.  
But last time I checked this was personal." 

Skinner shook his head impatiently. "That's not what I mean, and you  
know it. I'm breaking more than one rule, not to mention ignoring logic,  
by letting you work your own case. It isn't done, and it could land me  
in some very hot water. If I'm going to put my ass on the line for you,  
I need to know you can handle it. You've got to turn off your emotions  
on this one, Mulder. You've got to profile this guy." 

The argument Scully expected never came. To her surprise, Mulder was  
silent a moment as if considering Skinner's words, then nodded. "Okay,  
I'm listening." 

"Scully is right when she says that this doesn't fit the Consortium's  
M.O.," Skinner continued. "If they wanted you dead it would be a  
professional hit, quick and clean. And we both know that, if necessary,  
they have methods more exotic than this toxin." 

Mulder looked at him sharply, his eidetic memory conjuring up a clear  
picture of Skinner lying in the hospital, his skin strangely mottled and  
his breathing labored. More exotic, indeed. 

Mulder's gaze seemed to turn inward, and he pulled absent-mindedly at  
his lower lip while rocking slightly in the chair. Skinner started to  
speak again, but Scully caught his eye and shook her head. She was all  
too familiar with Mulder in this mode. That brilliant mind would turn  
inward, and when he finally surfaced it would be with some new angle or  
spin on things. There was no sense in trying to speak to him during  
these times -- you only succeeded in short-circuiting the process and  
making Mulder irritable. 

They waited silently, and after a moment Mulder's eyes swam back into  
focus and he brought the chair sharply forward, dropping both feet to  
the floor. The discomfort this maneuver cost him showed plainly to  
Scully, though she wasn't sure Skinner could have detected it. Mulder  
was a master at hiding pain, both physical and emotional, but she'd  
learned the language. A subtle tightening of facial muscles, a slow  
blink, a slight catch in his breathing...she'd learned to speak the  
language all too fluently over their years together. 

"You're right. He must have hit me harder than I thought for me not to  
see this from a mile away. He wants me dead, but that's not really the  
main objective." 

Scully frowned a little. "Meaning?" 

Mulder stood up and began to pace, seemingly oblivious to the fact that  
he was limping slightly.  
"Meaning that in this case, getting there is half the fun, Scully. It's  
not enough for me to die. Like you said, a bullet, a knife, or even a  
garrote would have accomplished that quickly. But he doesn't want quick.  
He wants slow. He wants painful." Mulder stilled his frantic movement  
and his eyes skittered away from hers, but not before she saw the  
haunted quality in their depths. His final statement was quiet, but  
powerful in the room's stillness. "He wants  
suffering." 

Scully bit her lip, for the second time that day wanting nothing more  
than to pull him into her arms for a comforting embrace. Wishing for  
once they could just be two people who cared for each other, and that  
all the rest would go away: the FBI, the Consortium, flukemen and serial  
killers... A light went on. 

"Someone you profiled," she said, seeing affirmation in his face.  
"Someone your profile was responsible for catching. Someone with a  
grudge." 

"Someone sick enough to dream up this scenario," Skinner added grimly. 

Mulder laughed, but it was a laugh that was oddly devoid of humor.  
"We'll have to narrow it down farther than that, sir. You just described  
every killer I ever caught during my VICAP years. Sick is a  
prerequisite." 

Scully stepped closer to lay her hand on his arm, gazing up at him.  
"Maybe so. But this sick killer has some very extensive knowledge of  
biochemistry." 

This time Mulder's chuckle was genuine. "You may just have something  
there, Scully. Let's take a look at the database." 

Mulder turned back toward his desk and had taken two quick steps when  
his leg buckled, sending him to his hands and knees. Scully darted to  
his side while Skinner helped him into a sitting position with his back  
against the desk. Mulder's fingers were knotted in the flesh of his left  
thigh and he was panting in pain, a thin sheen of perspiration on his  
brow and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. 

No longer caring what Skinner might think, Scully swept her fingertips  
across his brow to brush back an errant lock of hair. Her hand then  
settled onto his shoulder where it rubbed small, soothing circles into  
the tense muscles. 

"Talk to me, Mulder," she said quietly. 

"'S okay. Easing up now," he said, his teeth still clenched but his eyes  
sliding slowly open. "One moment it went numb, the next I have the  
father of all charley horses." His eyes met hers squarely, but the fear  
was there. "Right on schedule, huh?" 

Scully blinked back sudden moisture and nodded. "Yeah." 

Skinner stood and extended his hand, which Mulder accepted gratefully.  
Once on his feet, he carefully tested the leg before limping over to his  
desk and settling himself behind his computer. Scully opened her mouth  
to speak, but Skinner's firm grip on her arm silenced the words before  
they could be spoken. His brown eyes were compassionate, but firm.  
*Remember* they said clearly. Almost imperceptibly, she nodded in  
resignation. 

Skinner gave her arm a gentle squeeze and headed for the door. "I'll  
notify records that you'll be coming down for some files, Mulder," he  
said gruffly. "You'll be given top priority." 

Mulder paused in his typing and looked up at Skinner. "Thank you, sir." 

Skinner reflected that he'd been around his agents too long. He'd  
actually heard all that remained unspoken in those words. "Keep me  
posted." 

A parting glance at Scully, and he strode quickly out the door and down  
the hallway to the elevator. Scully took a deep breath and made sure her  
own composure was firmly in place before pulling a chair over to join  
her partner at the computer. 

The X-Files Office  
3:11 p.m.  
58 hours remaining 

Scully flipped the file folder closed with a sigh, moved it to the stack  
on her right, and reached for another from the pile on her left. She'd  
had no idea, until she and Mulder began searching the database, how many  
serial killers her partner had helped put away. Patterson had driven him  
unmercifully, Mulder reluctantly admitted. It had not been unusual for  
him to be writing several new profiles, following up and adjusting as  
necessary the ones he'd already generated, and consulting for other  
agents all at the same time. It didn't surprise Scully that Mulder had  
been on the edge of a breakdown by the time he'd left VICAP. It  
surprised her that he hadn't fallen over that edge. 

She was shaken from her reverie by the sound of the elevator doors  
opening and subsequent footfalls. That they belonged to Skinner was  
apparent -- the man still walked like a marine on patrol duty. Scully  
dropped the folder onto the desk and moved quickly to the door of the  
office, intercepting him just before he could enter. She laid her finger  
across her lips and motioned to Mulder's side of the room. 

Mulder had succumbed to the combination of exhaustion, stress, and  
lingering effects of the concussion about twenty minutes ago. She'd  
noticed the way he kept removing his glasses to scrub at his eyes, which  
drooped as he stubbornly perused his own allotment of files. Yet he'd  
refused her attempts to convince him to take a break. He'd remained at  
his desk, head propped on a fist, until he'd just sort of folded  
forward. Now he slept, cheek pillowed on his arm and glasses barely held  
within slack fingers. 

Skinner took in the sight and motioned for her to join him in the  
hallway. Scully obliged, pulling the office door quietly shut behind  
her. 

"How is he doing?" Skinner asked, thinking that although his intent had  
been to check on Mulder, the man's partner looked only marginally better  
off. 

Scully's eyes bore crescent shaped shadows that testified to her own  
sleepless night. But that was just the obvious, physical manifestation.  
What troubled him much more deeply was his agent's demeanor. Gone was  
the calm, levelheaded, rational Scully that some had cruelly christened  
"The Ice Queen." What he saw before him was a woman whose world was  
splintering into tiny pieces while she battled valiantly to hold them  
together. 

"He's struggling," she replied, her gaze meeting his only briefly before  
fixing on the wall just above his left shoulder. "Fighting to be normal,  
to pursue this like any other case. But the symptoms are increasing,  
sir, no matter how much Mulder may refuse to acknowledge them. He won't  
tell me, but I'm sure the cramping has gotten worse and I think he's  
been nauseous. We ordered in some lunch, but most of Mulder's sandwich  
wound up in the garbage. I know he'll be furious that I let him sleep,  
but I just didn't have the heart to wake him. We're expecting a new  
batch of files in the next half hour, so it'll happen soon enough." 

"Any luck so far?" Skinner thought he knew the answer, but needed to  
ask. 

Scully's brow creased and she blew out an explosive little puff of air.  
"Nothing so far. The ones with the applicable knowledge and training are  
all still safely tucked away in prisons or mental institutions. And the  
ones that have been let out don't possess a fraction of the technical  
expertise to concoct a poison like this." 

Purely some kind of gut instinct caused the next words to pass from  
Skinner's lips. They certainly weren't the ones he'd originally intended  
to speak. 

"Scully. I know when you're in there you feel you have to be strong for  
him. But out here it's okay to admit you're hurting and scared." 

He could have sworn he heard the crash as a dam crumbled. Scully's wide  
blue eyes flooded with tears and this time they spilled over, streaming  
down her pale cheeks. She pressed the knuckles of her right fist  
savagely against her lips in a futile effort to hold back a sob that  
sounded as if it had come from the bottom of her soul. Skinner hesitated  
only a moment before drawing her awkwardly into an embrace. The fact  
that she allowed him to do so without stiffening or pulling away shocked  
him more deeply than her tears. 

"I don't know if I can do this," she said between hitching breaths. "It  
hurts so much to watch it happening, to see his pain, and be powerless  
to stop it. Is this what Mulder felt during my cancer? My God, how could  
I have been so hard on him!" 

Skinner waited silently until the inevitable moment when Scully regained  
control enough to become aware of his embrace on a conscious level and  
pulled back, looking a little flustered. He handed her his handkerchief  
so that she could swipe the streaks of mascara from the corners of her  
eyes, still refraining from comment. When he saw that her shaking hands  
had finally steadied, he chose his words carefully. 

"You *can* do it, Scully." His voice was steel, but it was the steel of  
a supporting girder. "And you are *not* powerless. Mulder is still very  
much alive, and that's power in and of itself. Power to keep fighting,  
to keep searching. You stand before me now, Scully, alive because the  
man in that room refused to give up, even in the face of the most  
daunting odds. It's all right to feel pain. It's all right to be scared.  
But it isn't all right to despair." 

Scully closed her eyes for a moment, lips pressed tightly together,  
breathing deeply. When she opened them she met Skinner's gaze squarely,  
and he was relieved to see the strong, self-assured Scully with which he  
was familiar. If not for the wet spot on his shirt and the tear tracks  
on her cheeks, he could almost have believed the past five minutes never  
happened. Almost. For in the depths of those eyes, tucked away in a dark  
corner where very few would see, was a deep and profound sadness. 

"Sir, would you mind keeping an eye on Mulder for just a moment," Scully  
asked, tucking the soiled handkerchief into her pocket and straightening  
her jacket. "I need to freshen up a bit." 

Skinner nodded without comment, understanding that before Scully  
reentered the office any traces of her breakdown would be erased. During  
the time Scully was missing he'd witnessed countless instances of Mulder  
flirting with complete emotional meltdown only to stop and reassert  
control with a nearly visible effort. Repeatedly, Mulder and Scully had  
each managed to pull off the impossible if it was somehow in the best  
interest of the other. 

Scully walked briskly down the dim hallway to the ladies room. Once  
inside, however, she allowed her shoulders to slump. She leaned heavily  
on the cool, white porcelain of a sink and stared into the mirror,  
seeing not her own face in the smooth glass, but Mulder's. 

*Do you believe in the existence of extra-terrestrials?* 

*A dream is the answer to a question we haven't learned how to ask.* 

*The truth will save you, Scully.* 

*You're my one in five billion.* 

*You complete me.* 

Ducking her head, Scully flicked on the cold water, cupped her hands to  
catch the flow, and bathed her face. Once certain all traces of her  
previous bout of weeping had been removed and the burning in her eyes  
eased, she reached blindly for a paper towel. She practically jumped out  
of her skin when one was placed into her questing fingers, her nose  
abruptly registering the stench of cigarette smoke. Quickly regaining  
her equilibrium, Scully calmly finished drying her face before looking  
up to stare at him in the mirror. 

"Are you reduced to hanging around women's washrooms now? Lo, how the  
mighty have fallen," she said, infusing each word with as much derision  
as she could muster. 

Cancer Man simply looked at her tolerantly while tapping a cigarette  
from his ever-present pack of Morleys and lighting up. 

"Your sarcasm is a refreshing change, Agent Scully," he said in the  
calm, slightly raspy voice she'd come to despise. "Your partner would  
have pinned me to the wall with his gun at my head by now. I've been  
dealing with the wrong person." A look of concern crossed CSM's face, so  
blatantly contrived that Scully found her hands clenching the sink in an  
effort to resist launching herself at him. "By the way, how is Agent  
Mulder?" 

Scully spun around to face him, her features distorted by fury. "You  
know exactly how he is, why else would you be here talking to me now?  
The real question is, what do you know about it?" 

CSM took a deep pull on the cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly.  
Scully ground her teeth but remained silent, knowing he was engaging in  
what Mulder would call "yanking her chain." 

"My purpose here is two-fold, Agent Scully," he finally said, his tone  
silky smooth. "First, to assure you that I had nothing to do with  
Mulder's current...difficulties. And second, to warn you that the line of  
reasoning you are presently pursuing is flawed." 

The rage that had been slowly simmering in Scully's gut instantly came  
to a full boil. "You're entire existence is a lie, you bastard! Give me  
one good reason why I should believe a single word you say." 

The look of amusement in his cold stare only served to fan the flames of  
Scully's wrath, but his next words had the effect of a bucket of ice  
water. 

"Because, Agent Scully, Mulder will die if you don't." 

Seeing he'd captured her full attention, CSM flicked the ash from the  
end of his cigarette and smiled. "Mulder was right about one thing. The  
man who poisoned him is tied to his past -- but not his time with  
Patterson writing profiles. He needs to go farther back, to his days  
under Reggie Purdue." 

CSM dropped the smoldering butt of his cigarette and crushed it into the  
tile before turning as if to leave. 

"That's it?" Scully's voice shook with outrage. "You waltz in here and  
tell me to switch the entire course of the investigation, and that's all  
you'll give me? Why even bother?" 

CSM stopped without turning back toward her. "Because, though there are  
those who remain supremely indifferent to Agent Mulder's fate, others  
like myself understand the importance of his role in the events that are  
to come." 

"Then give me more. Time is too short for your games." 

CSM smiled smugly and reached for the pack of Morleys again. "Our  
'games,' Agent Scully, may be all that extends the time we have." 

He lit up again and continued walking, but paused with his hand on the  
door. "Mulder's special talents caught Patterson's eye long before he  
managed to acquire him as a profiler. Look for a case that distinguished  
a green agent. Good luck, Agent Scully." 

Scully stood numbly under the harsh fluorescent lights long after the  
door had closed behind him, her mind scrambling to make sense of his  
words, her heart pounding with dread. 

X-Files Office  
5:08 p.m.  
56 hours remaining 

"This is it, the Bishop case," Mulder said quietly, opening the folder  
before him and lifting the first page. 

Scully leaned over his shoulder and snagged the autopsy report, rapidly  
scanning the results. "A suicide?" 

"An *apparent* suicide. Carolyn Bishop was found dead in her apartment,  
wrists slashed. At first glance it seemed routine. She'd just gone  
through a messy breakup with her boyfriend of three years. Friends said  
she'd been a little depressed. She even left a note to her mother,  
apologizing for checking out the way she did. Case closed." 

Scully studied her partner's expressionless face. "But not for you..." 

Skinner made a small sound of amusement from across the room and Scully  
looked up at him questioningly. 

"One of the first times I heard the name Fox Mulder," Skinner offered,  
grinning a little. "A young, inexperienced agent, fresh out of the  
academy, making a big stink over what was an obvious suicide. Insisted  
it was murder. Kid wouldn't let it go." 

Mulder watched Skinner speak, then closed his eyes with a sigh. "I was  
an obnoxious, arrogant, little jerk. Thought I had all the answers." He  
sighed again. "Was it really only ten years ago? Feels like a lifetime." 

"You may have been all that," Skinner said. "But you were also correct." 

"What made you suspect murder?" Scully asked, lifting the page that  
contained the police report. 

Mulder shrugged, mouth twitching in a slight smile. "Would you believe a  
hunch? I'm honestly not sure how it began. Something about the scene  
just didn't feel right. The pieces didn't fit together. Sure, her  
friends said she was a little depressed, but not despondent. And here's  
a woman about to kill herself, yet the kitchen was stocked with enough  
food to feed her for a month and the apartment had just been cleaned.  
You could still see those tracks a vacuum leaves on the pile of her  
carpet. Why would she vacuum only to slit her wrists and bleed all over  
the rug? And then there was the note..." 

"I thought you said she left a note to her mother," Scully reminded him. 

"She did. Only problem was, she signed the note 'Carolyn.'" 

"Which happened to be her name," Scully said, feeling the customary  
prickle of irritation she always experienced when Mulder insisted on  
feeding her the facts a tiny nibble at a time rather than in one large  
bite. 

"Yeah. But I spoke with her mother personally, hoping to put some of my  
doubts to rest. After a few minutes I realized she kept referring to her  
daughter as 'Callie,' and I asked her about it. Mrs. Bishop told me that  
although the rest of the world might have known her as Carolyn, to her  
she'd always been Callie." 

Scully nodded pensively. "It's still pretty thin, Mulder. Police report  
says there was no evidence of foul play. No forced entry. No sign of a  
struggle. And the tox screen came back negative." 

"It was enough to get them to take a second look at the body." 

Skinner snorted. 

Mulder looked up in irritation. "What?" 

"It was enough because Reggie got sick and tired of you harping on it.  
'The bulldog' he called you. Said once you got your teeth in something  
you just wouldn't let go." 

Mulder's frown eased and was replaced by a look of nostalgia. "Reggie  
always listened, even when he didn't agree." 

"So you got them to do a second autopsy?" Scully asked. 

Mulder flipped through the folder and handed her another sheet.  
"External only, and for something specific." 

"An injection site." 

Mulder nodded, impressed as always with his partner's intuitiveness.  
"They found one hidden under her hairline at the nape of her neck. From  
there we repeated the tox screen with a few more exotic possibilities in  
mind." 

"And found?" 

"Curare. Diluted enough to cause paralysis but not death. From there it  
was just a matter of checking suspects. Since none of the doors or  
windows had been forced, we figured it must have been someone she knew.  
Someone she trusted enough to let into her home, and to turn her back." 

"The ex-boyfriend?" 

Mulder pulled a second file folder from beneath the first. "Cameron  
Cardow. A chemist for a pharmaceutical company. Brilliant, but unstable  
according to his employer. When no one could substantiate his alibi that  
he'd been working that evening, we obtained a search warrant. Found a  
vial of the stuff in his medicine chest." 

"So you were directly responsible for sending this man to prison,"  
Scully mused, watching as Mulder jotted down some notes on a pad. 

He made a small grunt of affirmation, continuing to write until his  
fingers suddenly seemed to become entangled and he dropped the pencil.  
Scully bit her lip and glanced away, but not before seeing the look of  
pain coupled with frustration on Mulder's face. It was the fourth time  
he'd dropped an object in the last hour. 

"It was more than that," Skinner spoke up, moving closer. "Our cigarette  
smoking friend was right when he suggested that this case launched  
Mulder's career as the bureau's boy genius. Even the director heard  
about this one." 

"So Cardow would have every reason to hold a grudge against Mulder. Did  
you have any contact with him?" Scully asked. 

"I was in on the initial interview and the search of his apartment. I  
even testified at the trial," Mulder admitted. 

Scully lifted the mug shot of Cardow and scrutinized it. Thin and slight  
of build with lank blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses. A definite lab  
geek. But the eyes... The eyes regarded the camera with sharp  
intelligence. Scully failed to suppress a shiver, dropping the picture  
back into the open folder. 

Mulder's face was still, his focus turned inward to a time long ago. "He  
never copped a plea," he said quietly. "Kept insisting he was innocent,  
right up until they took him away." 

He didn't mention that his eidetic memory had suddenly recreated an  
image of the look Cardow had cast his way, oozing venom. As a rookie,  
he'd been understandably shaken. 

"I've got Kim looking up the most current information on Cardow,"  
Skinner said, all traces of his earlier humor gone. "He was serving a  
thirty year sentence. By all rights he should still be safely inside a  
cell." 

Scully pursed her lips and stared at Cardow's picture with an uneasy  
fascination. "He certainly fits the criteria, though." 

"Not to mention Smokey pointed us in his direction," Mulder growled. He  
started to say more but grimaced instead, face pale. Scully could see  
that he was forcing himself to relax, attempting to take deep breaths. 

"Mulder..." 

"I'm fine, Scully." 

Her own words, spoken in that same stiff tone of voice, came back to  
haunt her. *I deserve this* she thought sadly. *So many times he wanted  
to help, to comfort, and I slammed the door in his face. What goes  
around, comes around.* 

Before she could comment, the phone rang and Skinner quickly scooped it  
up. "Skinner." 

He listened silently for several moments, expression grave. 

"When?" he demanded gruffly, a scowl darkening his features. "You're  
certain? Do we have an address?" 

As Kim continued to speak, Skinner snapped his fingers and mimed  
writing. Scully handed him a pencil and pad of paper, observing as he  
jotted down an address. She covertly glanced at her partner, stricken by  
what she saw. Thinking he was momentarily unobserved, Mulder had wrapped  
one arm around his stomach, eyes squeezed shut in pain. Noting that  
Skinner was still tied up with Kim, she reached into her jacket pocket  
for the bottle of painkillers that Dr. Wagner had given her when Mulder  
checked out. 

"The pain will become excruciating," he'd warned, sympathy coloring his  
words. "These will help -- for a while, at least." 

Silently she pried open Mulder's other hand, which lay clenched atop his  
desk, and placed the bottle into it. Mulder's eyes popped open, but they  
were glassy with pain and it took him a moment to process what she had  
done. He looked at her gratefully for a moment before firmly shaking his  
head and giving her back the pills. 

"I have to be able to think, Scully. I can't if I'm half stoned on  
those." 

Scully wanted to argue with him. She wanted to tell him that he needed  
the pills, that he couldn't allow himself to continue to suffer this  
kind of agony. But his eyes stopped her. They were full of pain, yes,  
but also strength and determination. Suddenly Scully had to question  
whether she wanted Mulder to take the pills for himself, or if it was  
actually for her own wish not to watch him hurt. So instead of debating  
his decision, she accepted the bottle without comment, allowing her  
fingers to linger on his palm for a moment. Mulder's lips curved gently  
in the ghost of a smile, leaving her certain her choice had been  
correct. 

Skinner replaced the phone in its cradle, bringing him back to the focus  
of their attention. Mulder searched his face, taking in the clenched jaw  
and the telltale shifting of his boss's eyes to the side before he began  
to speak. The news was not good. 

"Cameron Cardow was released from prison three months ago," he said.  
Again, a glance to his right before he met Mulder's eyes straight on.  
"He's been cleared of all murder charges." 

"Cleared?" Scully's voice was incredulous. 

"It seems that a witness came forward who could place Cardow at work on  
the night of the murder, just as he'd claimed." 

"Came forward? When? There was no such witness at the original trial,"  
Mulder said in a level voice. 

The muscle in Skinner's cheek twitched. "The man was working in the lab  
that night and saw Cardow, even spoke with him. The next day he received  
a promotion and was transferred to their branch in England, effective  
immediately. By the time word of the murder and Cardow's involvement hit  
the press, this guy and his family were gone." 

"How did Cardow find him?" Scully asked. 

"He didn't. Three years ago he secured another transfer back to the  
States. A year later an old friend happened to bring up the subject of  
Cardow, and the rest is history. Cardow's lawyer eventually got him a  
new trial and he was cleared." 

"But the curare found in his apartment..." 

"Circumstantial. Cardow was a chemist, there were other strange  
substances found at the same time. Cardow claimed it was all related to  
projects at work." 

Mulder gestured to the pad in Skinner's hand. "That a current address?" 

Skinner's scowl returned. "So far as we know. Since Cardow was cleared,  
not paroled, he's not required to stay in touch with the authorities." 

"It's a start," Scully said quietly, scanning Mulder's face. 

Mulder had leaned back in his chair and was pulling absently at his  
lower lip. "It's him," he said firmly. "I can feel it." 

Skinner ripped the piece of paper off the pad and stood up. "You two in  
the mood for a trip to Virginia?" 

Mulder looked up at his boss, a surge of gratitude leaving him  
speechless for a moment. By the choice of his words Skinner had asked if  
he was physically capable of continuing the investigation without making  
him feel helpless. His admiration and respect for the man rose a notch,  
and despite the ache in his gut he mustered a genuine smile. 

"Sure we are, sir," he said, tossing Scully a conspiratorial wink.  
"We'll even let you drive." 

Headquarters of The Lone Gunmen  
9:52 p.m.  
50 hours remaining 

"Who is it?" 

The voice fairly oozed paranoia, and Scully rolled her eyes. When Mulder  
remained mute, propped against the doorframe, she realized he was  
waiting for her to answer. She recognized the cause of his silence,  
having observed similar behavior from him multiple times over the past  
several hours. He was economizing -- speaking and moving only when  
necessary in an effort to conserve as much of his waning strength as  
possible. 

"It's Steven Spielberg. Now open up, Frohike," she called impatiently,  
eliciting a smirk from her partner that warmed her heart. 

She counted no less than eight locks being released before the door  
opened to reveal the little man. 

"Ah, the lovely Agent Scully," he said. 

She noticed the leer in his eyes was brief and forced, their focus  
quickly shifting to scan Mulder appraisingly. Mulder had explained the  
situation to Byers on the phone during the drive over, so all three  
gunmen must know by now. 

Mulder evidently picked up on Frohike's scrutiny, for he pushed past him  
impatiently, muttering, "Down Frohike. I'm not that kind of girl." 

Scully followed him through the perpetually dim and cluttered maze of  
electronics, hearing Frohike meticulously refasten each lock. Langly was  
hunched over a keyboard and typing furiously, clad in a ratty Dead Can  
Dance tee shirt with half the letters peeling off. 

"Hey, Mulder," he said, his fingers halting and his eyes giving Mulder  
an intense look much like Frohike's. 

Mulder sank into the chair beside Langly, eyes sliding shut for a split  
second before popping open. 

"Whatcha got?" he asked, scanning the monitor. 

"It's still downloading. We hacked into Cardow's old personnel file at  
BioGuard, looking for information on the project he was involved with at  
the time of the murder." 

"For a small company that develops pesticides, BioGuard's security  
measures seem a bit extreme," Byers commented, entering the room  
nattily- dressed as always in a three-piece suit. He hesitated a moment,  
studying Mulder before asking, "Can I get you two anything?" 

"Yeah, the information. And you can all stop staring at me as if I'm  
about to self combust," Mulder growled irritably, unconsciously curling  
one arm around his middle. 

"Here it comes now," Langly said eagerly, leaning closer to the screen. 

Frohike, seeing that Mulder's attention was fixed on the computer, drew  
Scully to the side. The sadness she read in his eyes took her back to an  
evening years before, when Frohike had turned up on her doorstep  
half-intoxicated and grieving over Mulder's presumed death. 

"How is he doing?" he asked her gravely. 

Scully shrugged, appreciating Frohike's concern but loathe to discuss  
something Mulder was trying so desperately to conceal. 

"I don't know what to say, Frohike," she said quietly. "He's in a lot of  
pain, and it's getting worse. He doesn't want to acknowledge it, though,  
so it would be best if you guys would just ignore the obvious. You saw  
just now how he reacted to being treated with kid gloves." 

"Like the arrogant SOB we all know and love," Frohike agreed ruefully.  
The intense stare from earlier returned, this time trained on Scully.  
"How are *you* holding up, Dana?" 

The sudden lump that formed in her throat caught Scully by surprise. *I  
must be in bad shape* she mused, *if a show of concern from Frohike is  
reducing me to tears.* 

She immediately felt remorse for her less than charitable thoughts.  
Frohike certainly had his share of rough edges -- she had first-hand  
experience with that fact. But he was also fiercely loyal to those he  
counted as friends. She wondered how many women had casually dismissed  
the little man, never realizing that a heart of gold lay beneath the  
crude jokes and gnome-like exterior. 

"I'm hanging in there, Frohike," she said, favoring him with one of her  
rare smiles, "for as long as he needs me." 

A low whistle from Langly brought them quickly over to where the other  
three were bent over the computer, mesmerized by whatever data was on  
the screen. Mulder lifted his gaze to Scully, and she saw that his  
hazel eyes had gone nearly black in color. 

"We always wind up back in the same nightmare, Scully," he said, face  
blank with shock. "No matter how many times we think we've finally woken  
up." 

Baffled, Scully tore her eyes from his haunted gaze to look at Byers. 

"It's BioGuard," Byers explained, shooting Mulder a quick look of  
sympathy before turning his full attention to Scully. "We've traced them  
to a parent company called Gentronics. Gentronics is a subsidiary of  
Roush." 

Scully's eyes flew back to Mulder almost of their own accord. A cold  
sweat covered her partner's brow and his hands trembled slightly as he  
gripped the countertop to balance himself, stumbling to his feet. 

"Mulder?" 

"I'm all right, Scully," he snapped, heading down the hall toward the  
bathroom, one hand occasionally pressed against the wall for support.  
"Been handling this by myself since I was two." 

The door shut with something that was not quite a slam. Scully ran her  
fingers through her hair, tucking errant strands behind her ear while  
struggling to calm her pounding heart. The three gunmen exchanged  
troubled glances. Frohike abruptly started down the hall but halted,  
frozen by the authoritative sound of Scully's voice. 

"Frohike, *don't*!" 

He rounded on her, and Scully was shocked to see something akin to fury  
on the man's face. "What do you mean, 'don't!' Someone should check on  
him, he could be in trouble. How can the three of you, especially *you*  
(he gestured accusingly at her) just sit there?" 

Langly started to splutter but Scully stopped him with an upraised hand.  
"I know what he's doing in there, Frohike." Her voice was cold with  
anger, but trembled slightly with another emotion. "He started vomiting  
while we were with Skinner in Virginia, checking out Cardow's last known  
address. There's nothing left in his stomach now, so it's just dry  
heaves. He'll wait until the attack has passed and he's pulled himself  
together before he comes out." 

"I *want* to be in there with him, Frohike. I want to hold his forehead,  
to wipe his face with a cool cloth when he's done. But that isn't what  
Mulder needs. Mulder needs his dignity. He needs to be the same strong,  
self-sufficient man he was twenty-four hours ago. So it doesn't make a  
damn bit of difference what you, or I, or anyone else wants. I'm going  
to do whatever I can, for as long as I can, to give him that." 

"Are we to assume that the address you checked was a dead end?" Byers  
asked, breaking the uneasy silence that followed Scully's speech. 

"Cardow cleared out two weeks ago. He didn't leave a forwarding  
address." Scully's smile was bitter. "Big surprise. He also quit the job  
he'd obtained as a lab tech for a pharmaceutical company. Left without  
giving notice." 

"We've just started digging into this," Langly said. "It could take all  
night." 

"You two could crash here while you're waiting," Frohike offered. 

Scully recognized the olive branch. "Thanks, but I'm going to take him  
back to his place. I think he'll have a better chance at some sleep on  
that ratty couch of his. You boys can help by convincing him there's  
nothing more he can do right now." 

The bathroom door opened and Mulder appeared several moments later, his  
hair and the collar of his shirt slightly damp. Scully waited until he'd  
settled himself beside Langly, pointedly refraining from asking him if  
he was okay. 

"So what does it mean, Mulder?" she asked instead. "I keep trying to  
find a place for Roush in the puzzle, but it just won't fit." 

"Maybe that's because Roush, and the consortium, have nothing to do with  
what's happening to me right now." 

Scully arched an eyebrow. "Excuse me? You can't mean to tell me that you  
think it's just a coincidence that the man who is trying to kill you was  
once employed by them!" 

Mulder actually grinned a little at her outrage. "That's not what I  
said. I said I don't think they have anything to do with Cardow  
poisoning me. I think Cancer Man's little visit with you suggests Cardow  
is a loose cannon, operating outside the Consortium's jurisdiction. The  
question is why." 

Scully studied his face. "And you have a theory." 

"I always have a theory, Scully." 

The normality of his banter in the midst of this insanity left her  
aching inside. She buried the pain deeply and pursed her lips. "Go for  
it, Mulder." 

"I think ten years ago Cardow and I were unwitting pawns in a game that  
you and I have only just begun to understand. I think Cardow was  
condemned to take a fall, with me giving him the push. Maybe he thinks I  
was a willing participant, or maybe he just hates that I fulfilled the  
purpose they gave me. Whatever his motivation, Cardow has decided it's  
time I was punished for those lost years." 

"Why you? Why not the Consortium itself?" 

"Accessibility, for one thing. I make a much easier target. But it's  
more basic than that, I think. Through me, Cardow is able to put a face  
to his pain. I sat in that witness chair and gave the testimony that  
took away his freedom and changed his life forever. I couldn't have done  
a better job if I had been on the Consortium's payroll." 

"It wasn't your fault," Frohike spoke up. "You were doing your job. You  
couldn't have known it was a set-up." 

Mulder sighed. "I wish I could say that makes me feel better. But face  
it, I was instrumental in sending an innocent man to prison for seven  
years. How can I not own part of his pain?" 

"You can't own another person's pain, Mulder," Scully said quietly. "We  
each have more than enough of our own. Cardow may have been powerless  
once, but now he's the one in the driver's seat." 

Mulder nodded, but his expression was one of resignation. "Maybe you're  
right, Scully. But it was a lot easier when I could look at Cardow and  
see a monster. Now I just see another victim." 

Hegal Place - Apt. 42  
1:27 a.m.  
48 hours remaining 

With a deep sigh, Scully flipped onto her back, causing the waterbed to  
undulate gently beneath her. She stared up at her reflection; indistinct  
in a room illuminated only by moonlight. Her weariness was so deep it  
penetrated even her bones, but she couldn't sleep. Her hypersensitive  
ears were tuned to catch even the slightest sound from the other room,  
from the low drone of the television to the rustling sound of Mulder  
shifting restlessly on the couch. Evidently she wasn't the only one  
still awake. 

She'd managed to pry Mulder away from the Gunmen sometime before  
midnight, driving him home over only mild protests. She'd stopped at her  
own apartment briefly along the way so that she could collect a change  
of clothes and a box of chamomile tea. During her cancer, there had been  
days when a cup of the steaming liquid was all she could tolerate. 

She'd brewed them each a cup while Mulder showered, and they'd consumed  
it in a kind of numb haze around his coffee table. So far, he'd managed  
to keep it down. They'd retired -- he to the sofa and she to his  
rarely-used bed. Now she lay here, hair still damp from her own shower,  
staring at the woman in the mirror and wondering how she could face the  
possibility of losing him. 

When she closed her eyes, it was only to be bombarded with images of the  
past six years with Mulder. What had begun as an uneasy alliance between  
strangers, blossomed into the most significant relationship she'd ever  
known. He challenged her. Frustrated her. Inspired her. Aggravated her.  
Completed her. 

Footsteps padded softly into the bathroom and Scully tensed, waiting for  
the sounds of retching to begin. To her intense relief, they never came. 

When she heard Mulder resume his tossing and turning, Scully climbed out  
of bed and wrapped her robe around her to ward off the chill. She opened  
the bedroom door and slipped silently into the living room. 

Mulder was seated on the sofa, his legs clasped to his chest and his  
head resting on his knees. Scully watched him for several minutes,  
emotions warring inside. She firmly believed the speech she'd made to  
the gunmen earlier that evening. What Mulder was experiencing was  
certainly not alien to her. She remembered the anger at her own body's  
betrayal, and the humiliation of the gradual loss of self-sufficiency.  
Scully wanted to permit Mulder his independence for as long as possible. 

But another part of her ached to give him more. Just once, for him to  
let down his walls and surrender some of the control to her. To allow  
her to comfort him. To allow her to hold him. 

The slight trembling of Mulder's shoulders made her decision for her.  
She moved over to stand before him, laying a feather-soft hand on the  
top of his head. He went momentarily rigid at her touch, but gradually  
relaxed under her gentle stroking. 

"Say the word, Mulder," Scully said, keeping her voice as soft as her  
hand, "and I'll walk back into that bedroom. I'll understand if that's  
what you want." 

The silence seemed to stretch for an eternity. The single word of reply,  
when it came, was little more than a whisper. 

"Stay." 

She sank to the couch and pulled him to her, tucking his head under her  
chin while she continued to run soothing fingers through the silky  
strands of hair. She felt the hitching of his breath taper off. He  
eventually pulled back to sit up, scrubbing at his eyes with the palms  
of his hands. 

"Were you ever ready, Scully? At the end, when you were in the hospital,  
were you ready to accept your own death?" 

The question came out of left field, and Scully scrambled to catch up.  
Mulder rarely approached serious matters head on. He deflected with  
humor, turning the conversation to Betty Rubble's bustline. That he'd  
ask such a question outright told her much about his state of mind. 

"I'm not sure how to answer that, Mulder," she said honestly, trying to  
verbalize a range of conflicting emotions. "I was angry at the cancer,  
and at the men who gave it to me. And it hurt to face leaving the people  
I love." She reached out to lace her fingers with his. 

"But I guess there was a part of me that had made my peace with the  
idea. The part that was hurting and tired. The part that wanted to  
believe that something better was waiting." 

Mulder nodded slightly, appearing to absorb her words. He opened his  
mouth as if to speak, but abruptly shut it. His lip quivered, and he  
savagely caught it between his teeth as a lone tear slipped down his  
cheek. Scully tightened her grasp on his hand but remained mute. It was  
one of the most difficult things she'd ever done. 

When he finally did speak, his voice was husky with emotion. "I keep  
trying to, Scully. To make my peace, the way you said. But I don't think  
I can. All I can see is failure. I haven't found my sister.  
Professionally, my crusade for the Truth has made me a joke to my peers,  
while the only thing I've uncovered has been an elaborate web of lies.  
As for my personal life -- frankly, very few people will give a damn  
when I'm gone." 

Scully fought the urge to tell him he wasn't going to die yet. Instead,  
she turned sideways, forcing him to look into her eyes.  
"Do you want to know what I see when I look at you, Mulder?" she asked,  
searching his face. "I see a man who from an early age was given every  
reason to stop believing -- in other people, in knowing the truth, in  
life. Instead, I see a man who burns with a passion for all three,  
sometimes so brightly it hurts. I see a man with whom I can completely  
disagree, and yet just as completely respect. Best of all, I see a  
friend who has never given up on me, and never will. Even if it means  
literally going to the ends of the earth." 

"I see all those things, Mulder. But a failure? Not in any sense of the  
word." 

He didn't speak, and the tears that pooled in his eyes at her words  
never fell, but Mulder pulled her into a fierce hug. Mimicking her  
earlier movements, he tucked her head under his chin after placing a  
kiss on the top. Scully just let him hold her, admitting it was as much  
for her own comfort as for his. 

After a little while he released his hold on her, shifting in obvious  
discomfort. "You'd better go get some sleep, Scully," he suggested,  
voice still husky but steady. "You've been up for almost forty-eight  
hours now." 

"So have you," she pointed out, reluctant to break their closeness. 

"Yeah, but at least I've had a few catnaps. Go on, I'll be fine out  
here." 

Scully looked at him appraisingly then stood up. But instead of heading  
for the bedroom, she perched on the coffee table. "Lay down on your  
stomach, Mulder." 

"Scully?" 

"I know a sure fire way to help you get to sleep." 

In spite of his considerable pain, Mulder waggled his eyebrows at her.  
"Oooo, Scully. You don't know how long I've waited to hear you suggest  
this." 

Cheered by the normality of his innuendo, Scully played her part and  
arched an eyebrow. "A backrub, Mulder. And if you're really good I'll  
tell you a story, like I do for my godson. Works every time." 

Mulder stretched out obediently, head pillowed on his folded arms. When  
he'd settled himself as comfortably as he could, she slipped her hand up  
under his tee shirt and began gently rubbing in small circles. She  
braced herself for another suggestive remark, but received only a deep  
sigh of contentment. 

"That feels really good, Scully. Now how about that story." 

Scully smiled, thinking to herself that at the moment Mulder reminded  
her of a little boy. "How about the story of the first case I ever  
solved?" 

Mulder's eyes gleamed with interest. "At the bureau?" 

She shook her head. "Nope. It was during the summer before my senior  
year in college. I was doing an internship at a pharmaceutical company  
that made parenterals. That's intravenous solutions like antibiotics and  
saline." 

"What did you do there?" 

"The drugs had to be manufactured under completely sterile conditions.  
That meant that the facilities had to be monitored to be sure those  
conditions were met. So I'd test the air and surfaces for bacteria and  
other contaminants. The tests results had to be negative, or we faced  
the possibility of having to throw out any drugs that were produced." 

"Sounds expensive," Mulder said, suppressing a yawn. 

Scully smiled to herself and continued to rub his back. "It could be  
extremely expensive, depending on the drug. But it didn't matter,  
because we never had any problems. At the end of every day the fill  
rooms would be washed down with bleach solution from floor to ceiling,  
and no bacteria stood a chance at survival. From what I heard, none ever  
had. Until that summer, after I'd been on the job for about a month." 

"What happened?" 

"The surface tests started failing. And we're not talking by a little.  
Bacteria were popping up in the test tubes and agar plates like we were  
*trying* to grow them. Management was tearing their hair out, trying  
everything they could think of to get rid of the problem, but nothing  
worked. They cleaned more often, increased the strength of bleach,  
checked the sterile gowning of all the employees -- nothing made a bit  
of difference. Even after completely sanitizing the area the night  
before, a sample taken first thing the next morning would be crawling  
with germs." 

"But the intrepid Dana Scully figured it out," Mulder mumbled. His eyes  
were at half-mast now, occasionally slipping shut for several seconds  
before popping open. 

"Purely by accident, I must admit. I was in the lab late one night to  
finish up some paperwork. On my way out the door I happened to glance  
through the window into one of the sterile fill rooms. What I saw almost  
made me fall over. There, in the middle of the room, was one of the men  
hired to clean the offices and other lab areas. No sterile gown. No  
gloves. Mopping the floor with one of those disgusting rag mops that  
have all those little strings on them, and eating a sandwich." 

Mulder smiled, though he let his eyes remain closed. "Guess you were  
quite the hero." 

"My boss *was* suitably appreciative," Scully admitted, laughing softly.  
"It really wasn't the poor man's fault. He'd been hired to clean, after  
all, and no one considered the fact that he was Polish and couldn't read  
any of the signs that said 'Sterile Area. Authorized Personnel Only.'  
Once we realized what had been happening, warnings were added in  
Polish." 

When Mulder was silent she leaned a little closer, noting that his  
breathing had become deep and even. His lips were still curved in a  
slight smile. 

"Works every time," she said, easing her hand from his back. She tugged  
the afghan from the back of the couch and tucked it securely around him,  
brushing away the stubborn lock of hair that, since his short haircut,  
existed only in her mind. 

"Sweet dreams, Mulder," she whispered. "I think tonight we both deserve  
a few." 


	2. Chapter 2

Hegal Place, Apt. 42  
9 a.m.  
40 hours remaining 

"Damn it!" 

Scully looked up from her laptop in time to see another ball of paper  
fly toward the wastebasket, only to land on the floor. Mulder massaged  
his right hand for a moment, flexing the fingers, before picking up his  
pen and beginning to write. A cooling mug of tea and a piece of dry  
toast with two bites missing sat on the desk at his left elbow. An open  
e-mail from the Lone Gunmen filled the computer screen. 

She observed him for several minutes. Crescent shaped shadows marred the  
flesh beneath his eyes and fresh lines of pain etched his forehead. He'd  
been chewing on his lower lip again, and it now bore a small raw spot.  
The tremors in his hands had grown more pronounced and were contributing  
to the lack of dexterity in his fingers. Hence the muttered curses and  
crumpled paper as he attempted to jot down some notes. The simple fact  
that he was taking notes at all held significance, since Mulder's  
eidetic memory normally made writing things down superfluous. His level  
of pain must have reached the point where it was affecting his  
concentration. 

Scully stood up and moved behind him so that she could read over his  
shoulder. She held back only briefly before giving in to the impulse to  
lay her small hands on his shoulders. Finding the muscles knotted with  
tension, she dug her thumbs into them in what she hoped was a soothing  
massage. To Scully's surprise, he paused in his writing and let his head  
hang forward so that she had better access to his neck. 

"Those hands are being wasted on corpses, Scully," he said, groaning a  
little when she worked a particularly tight spot. 

Scully smiled at his appreciation but chose not to comment. "What did  
the boys find?" 

"Plenty. They finally accessed the files on Cardow's work at BioGuard.  
On the surface it looks legitimate. Cardow was supposed to create a  
toxin able to completely wipe out some sort of infestation. There's a  
project number listed -- SPEC 426." 

"Probably refers to the protocol under which he was operating," Scully  
guessed. She dropped her hands when Mulder turned his chair to face her. 

"From what I can tell, the toxin had a very specific method of action.  
One with which I'm becoming all too familiar." 

"It mimicked black widow spider venom." 

Mulder nodded grimly. "All the results of his initial experiments are  
here - the way the effects increase exponentially, the symptoms I'm  
experiencing right now, even the success rate. It was 100 percent lethal  
in the initial trials. There's just one thing missing. There's no data  
on the formula of the toxin." 

Scully sighed and sank back down onto the couch. "You said it seemed  
legitimate on the surface. What did you mean by that?" 

Mulder frowned. "Something is odd about the rest of the data. Like I  
said, the initial trials were all successful. Makes it look like  
BioGuard should have been handing Cardow a medal. But then there's a  
second set of data, and the results are completely opposite from the  
first. Total failure." He handed Scully several sheets of numbers  
printed out from the Gunmen's e-mail. "The project was scrapped two  
weeks after that. Cardow evidently had trouble accepting the decision.  
There are several memos from him protesting the closure of the project,  
as well as responses from management insisting he terminate his  
experiments and turn in all related materials." 

Scully was studying the pages of data, brow creased in puzzlement. "I  
don't understand this. They conducted the initial trials on rats, but no  
subject is specified in the second set. Whatever it was must have had a  
radically different physiology from the rats if the toxin had no  
effect." 

Mulder, who had been slouched in the chair, absently rubbing his  
stomach, abruptly sat bolt upright. He stared straight through Scully  
for a moment, attention far away, before finally focusing on her  
intently. "What if it was more than just *different* in physiology,  
Scully? What if it wasn't even terrestrial?" 

Scully gave him "The Look," her eyebrows climbing so high they were  
practically hidden by the sweep of her auburn hair. "Excuse me?" 

"Just bear with me a minute. We know BioGuard is tied into Roush, which  
is in turn connected to the Consortium. What if Cardow's project was an  
early attempt at finding a weapon to stop alien colonization? What if  
Spec 426 stands for species 426. What if it was the black oil?" 

"Are you suggesting you think this might have been an early attempt at a  
vaccine?" 

"It makes sense, Scully. We know the consortium has been trying to  
develop one for years. Cardow is assigned the task of synthesizing a  
neurotoxin that will work on the alien colonists. He comes up with a  
nifty little poison that looks very promising, until he gets to the  
point where it's time to try it on a real, living EBE. It fails  
miserably, and Cardow is ordered to move on, but he just can't let it  
go. He's spent months, maybe years creating the toxin -- it's his baby  
\-- and he wants to keep working on it, perfecting it. Maybe he even  
continues to do so on the sly, after hours when he won't be observed.  
But someone sees him and rats him out to his boss. He's become a  
liability now; someone who can't take orders and pursues his own agenda.  
So a decision is made. Cardow has to be removed from the equation." 

Mulder grimaced. "Enter a naïve, arrogant agent ready to make a name for  
himself, the perfect tool to assist them in insuring that Cardow will be  
put somewhere he can't cause any more trouble. They even get rid of the  
person who saw Cardow's unauthorized dabbling -- and who,  
coincidentally, was his only alibi -- with a sudden promotion and  
transfer out of the country. All loose ends are tied up. Case closed." 

"Except something unforeseen happens," Scully mused. "A series of  
coincidences that leads to an acquittal of Cardow, and his subsequent  
release from prison." 

"And boy is he pissed," Mulder finished wryly. 

"Even if you're right, Mulder," Scully continued, "where does that leave  
us?" 

Mulder's faint smile faded. "It leaves us nowhere, Scully. Knowing the  
possible reason Cardow was framed ten years ago unfortunately does  
nothing to help me right now. The boys are going to keep looking, but I  
really don't think they'll find Cardow's formula. My guess would be that  
he took it with him when BioGuard cut him off." 

Three sharp raps on Mulder's door brought Scully to her feet. "You  
expecting one of the Gunmen?" 

Mulder shook his head, closing the e-mail. When he started to rise, she  
raised her hand. 

"I'll get it. Save your strength." 

Scully cracked the door, one hand poised over her weapon. When she saw  
who it was, she relaxed and opened the door wide. Skinner stepped inside  
and waited while she shut and locked the door behind him. He didn't say  
the words, but his facial expression made the unspoken question obvious. 

"It was a rough night," she said quietly. "The nausea and abdominal  
cramping is severe, and kept him from sleeping longer than about an hour  
at a time. He can't eat either. All he's been able to keep down is some  
chamomile tea." 

"Any luck with the investigation?" 

"Nothing that's going to help Mulder," Scully said wearily. 

Skinner actually smiled. "Then follow me. I have some good news." 

Despite Scully's earlier admonition, Mulder stood when he saw Skinner.  
Skinner waved him back to his chair and sat down on the couch. 

"To what do I owe the honor, sir?" Mulder asked, the wry grin back on  
his face. 

"I think we may have the break you've been looking for, Mulder.  
Forensics was able to recover a single bloody thumbprint on the  
sweatshirt you were wearing the night you were attacked. We ran it  
through the system and hit the jackpot." 

"I'm listening." 

"You said you had the impression you were attacked by two men, is that  
correct?" 

Mulder nodded. "I don't really remember anything concrete. It's just a  
general sense of two shadows coming at me, then nothing." 

"The print matched those of a man named Larry Reardon. Reardon is a  
career criminal, he's been incarcerated for a variety of crimes  
including burglary, fraud, and car theft. He was in the Cumberland  
Correctional Facility up until about three weeks ago." 

Scully perked up. "Cumberland?" 

Skinner nodded. "I made some calls. He was Cameron Cardow's cellmate for  
18 months, right up until the day Cardow was released." 

"I don't suppose we have a current address..." Mulder trailed off,  
expression carefully neutral. 

Skinner grinned. 

Scully blinked, feeling surreal. *Skinner just *grinned* she thought.  
*Somebody alert the media.* 

"He has an apartment in Arlington. Arlington PD issued a warrant and had  
two officers waiting for him when he got home from work last night. They  
even found a shirt stuffed in the bottom of his laundry basket that was  
covered with blood. We're reasonably certain that analysis will show  
it's yours. He's in custody as we speak." 

"I want to talk to him." 

Skinner nodded again. "I knew you would. I told the captain we'd be in  
sometime before noon." 

Mulder swallowed to rid himself of the sudden tightness in his throat,  
touched by Skinner's willingness to become personally involved in a  
matter that could have been left to subordinates. 

"Sir, I don't know how to thank you." 

Skinner's face was grave, but his brown eyes betrayed amusement. "That's  
easy, Agent Mulder. You can let me drive." 

Arlington Police Department  
10:45 a.m.  
38 hours remaining 

Scully sat at the wooden table, perched on the edge of the uncomfortable  
chair. Even in this position, her feet barely reached the floor. She  
hated when that happened. It made her feel like a little girl playing at  
being a federal agent. Mulder, however, was going to appreciate the  
construction of the overly large chairs. 

She glanced at the empty chair to her right, trying not to worry. He'd  
abruptly excused himself, as the three of them were about to enter the  
interrogation room, muttering that he needed to use the restroom and  
would be right back. That was five minutes ago, and the knot in the pit  
of her stomach had transformed into an object roughly the size of a  
large boulder. 

"You want me to check on him?" 

Skinner, who had been leaning against the wall behind her and perusing  
the wanted posters, straightened and moved to stand beside her. Scully  
hesitated, torn by her own worry for Mulder and her commitment to give  
him the space he needed. If she could check on him personally, she  
would, but that was hardly on option here. 

She allowed both gratitude and reservation to show on her face as she  
looked up at Skinner. "Thank you. But sir..." 

"Scully, I've known the man even longer than you have. I'll just check  
\-- no hovering." 

In spite of her anxiety, Scully smiled ruefully. "I promised myself I  
wouldn't fuss over him when things started getting bad. Mulder hates  
that. I need to be his partner and friend right now. He already has a  
doctor." 

Skinner paused with his hand on the door. "Being a doctor is part of who  
you are, Scully. If Mulder knows you half as well as I think he does,  
he'll understand that." 

Skinner got a detective to direct him to the bathrooms, steeling himself  
before pushing the door open and stepping inside. Despite his words to  
Scully, he knew she was right. Mulder hated to admit weakness or  
vulnerability, and he could be insufferable in such situations. 

At first glance, the room appeared empty and silent. Skinner briefly  
wondered if there was more than one set of bathrooms in the building and  
if he'd been directed to the wrong one. Then his ears caught the faint  
sound of rapid breathing. He walked along the line of stalls until he  
came to the last. The door was ajar, and he pushed it gently open.  
Mulder was slumped on the tile in front of the toilet; his forehead  
resting on the porcelain and his breath coming in short pants. The  
toilet bowl was bright red with blood. At the sound of Skinner's sharp  
intake of air, Mulder wearily raised his head. His lips were flecked  
with blood, and his voice was a hoarse whisper. 

"Don't tell Scully." 

Skinner had faced more than his share of trauma, and his training kicked  
in. The initial shock and panic that he'd felt when seeing the blood  
disappeared and his cool, rational side took over. He silently bent to  
grasp Mulder's left arm and sling it over his shoulder. Once he'd pulled  
the agent to his feet, he lowered the toilet lid and helped him to sit  
down. Skinner then went to a sink and wet a paper towel before returning  
to hand it to Mulder, who accepted it gratefully. 

He waited patiently while Mulder used the towel to bathe his face and  
wipe the blood from his mouth. When he finally finished, Skinner braced  
himself for the fallout from the words he felt compelled to speak. 

"Mulder. You should be in a hospital." 

Other people rarely surprised Skinner. He'd seen enough in his forty-odd  
years to make him immune to the crazy things people did and said. Mulder  
was different. One of the agent's qualities that Skinner found himself  
both inspired and irritated by was his consistent ability to catch him  
off balance. Now was no exception. 

"You're just figuring that out now, sir?" 

Skinner opened his mouth to reply, realized he was speechless, and  
settled for glaring at Mulder instead. Mulder pretended not to notice. 

"I know I belong in a hospital. You and Scully only have to watch while  
my body falls apart, but I'm the one living it. I also know I can't  
spend the short time I have left doing nothing but counting ceiling  
tiles and wondering what new experience this toxin will inflict upon me.  
I have to be *doing* something, sir. Don't take that away from me." 

Skinner rebelled against the crushing sense of empathy Mulder's words  
engendered. He was the man's boss; the one responsible not only for  
Mulder's safety, but Scully's as well. He couldn't allow a feeling of  
kinship with Mulder to influence what should be an objective decision. 

"Mulder, you just vomited blood..." 

"It's not as bad as it looks. A little blood looks like a lot, even  
Scully will tell you that. And I didn't actually vomit blood. I probably  
ruptured some blood vessels because of the dry heaves. The doctor warned  
me it could happen." 

Skinner glared at Mulder. Though he gave every appearance of stern  
disapproval on the exterior, inside he felt deep admiration for the man  
before him. Mulder's face was ghostly pale except for the dark circles  
beneath his eyes. He wore the pinched look of someone enduring a high  
level of pain, and his hands trembled when he forgot to clasp them  
tightly together. But his gaze was clear, lucid, and determined, lacking  
any fear or self-pity. How many men could have weathered any of Mulder's  
past experiences, let alone the last ten minutes, and kept going? The  
man's sheer courage under fire was remarkable. 

"I should yank you out of here right now and deposit your butt into the  
nearest hospital," Skinner growled, internally already admitting defeat. 

"But you aren't going to," Mulder finished for him, the relief on his  
face so intense Skinner felt he had to look away. "Thank you, sir. And I  
meant what I said earlier. Please don't tell Scully about this. There's  
nothing she can do, and it will only upset her." 

"She's already upset, Mulder." 

"You know what I mean." 

Skinner thought it over before nodding reluctantly. "I won't volunteer  
anything," he warned. "But I won't lie to her." 

Mulder pushed himself slowly to his feet. "I can accept that." 

Skinner watched without comment as Mulder splashed water on his face and  
used his damp hands to finger-comb his hair. When he'd straightened his  
tie and turned around, Skinner had to admit that the man looked  
amazingly composed and well put together. 

Skinner couldn't help feeling a flicker of amusement -- at both the  
sharp look Scully gave Mulder when they reentered the interrogation room  
and his agent's feigned ignorance. Before Scully could actually comment,  
however, the opposite door opened and a uniformed officer escorted  
Reardon into the room. 

The man slouched insolently in the chair with his gaze fixed on the  
table, ignoring the three pairs of eyes fastened on him. His long brown  
hair was gathered into a ponytail, and his eyes were so dark they  
appeared nearly black in color. He was tall in stature, with the  
muscular build of someone who worked out regularly. 

After the guard had left the room, Reardon looked up. His eyes skipped  
quickly over Skinner, but Scully saw a brief flash of recognition when  
they rested on Mulder before quickly skittering away. Mulder looked at  
Scully from the corner of his eye and nodded almost imperceptibly.  
Guessing that he wanted to be free to observe Reardon for the moment,  
she initiated the first question. 

"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully with the Federal Bureau of  
Investigation," she said. "The man next to me is my partner, Special  
Agent Fox Mulder. But you already knew that, didn't you Mr. Reardon." 

It was a statement, not a question. Skinner had removed himself to the  
background once again, and on a sudden impulse Scully decided not to  
introduce him yet. Skinner might just prove to be a trump card later on. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Reardon said sullenly. "How  
the hell would I know some Fibbie's name?" 

Scully smiled, but it was the smile of a shark sensing its next meal.  
Mulder suppressed a smirk. *Be afraid, Reardon. I'd turn back if I were  
you.* 

"I'm sorry, Larry. I just assumed that having someone's blood all over  
your shirt indicated prior contact with him. Am I wrong?" 

Reardon glared at her and looked about to refute her words, but  
evidently decided it would be useless. Instead he leaned forward and  
rested his folded arms on the table, a smug smile replacing the  
hostility. "Guess there's no use denying it, sweetheart. You've got me  
dead to rights. I'll just have to place myself at your mercy." He  
.followed the words with an exaggerated wink. 

Scully saw Mulder's knuckles turn white, but to his credit he remained  
stone-faced. She knew what it cost him. Mulder hated it when a suspect  
treated her disrespectfully, and Reardon was pushing that particular  
button with eerie accuracy. 

"There's only one thing I want from you, Mr. Reardon," Scully replied  
coldly. "I want the location of Cameron Cardow. Now." 

"I don't do anything unless there's something in it for me." 

"You helped Cardow, and it landed you here," Mulder spoke up. "What did  
you get out of that?" 

"Cam was my buddy when we were inside," Reardon answered, shifting his  
gaze from Scully to Mulder. "He helped me out of a couple tight spots  
and I owed him. Besides, he offered me a couple hundred bucks just to  
put you out of commission long enough for him to give you that shot." He  
shrugged and grinned. "I needed the money." 

"If he was such a pal, why didn't he just loan you the money?" Scully  
muttered. 

Mulder shot her a warning glance. "Why did he do it, Reardon? Did he  
discuss it with you?" 

Reardon rolled his eyes. "Did he *discuss* it with me? Man, you were all  
he talked about the entire time we shared a cell! I was glad when they  
finally released him. If I had to hear the gory details about what he  
was going to do to you one more time, I think I'd have lost my mind." 

If it was possible, Mulder paled. "Tell me." 

"He *hated* you, man. Said you were responsible for putting him away,  
knowing he was innocent. Real paranoid crap too, he kept talking about  
*'Them.'* Said it just like that, with a capital "T." He said They put  
you .up to the whole thing to stop him from completing his work on some  
project. Said you worked for Them. That's why he wanted you to die. He  
claimed you were real important to Them, and that by killing you he'd be  
hurting Them at the same time. Two birds with one stone, so to speak." 

Mulder leaned back in his chair and ran a trembling hand through his  
hair. Seeing that he was visibly rattled by Reardon's words, Scully  
jumped in. 

"So you admit that Cardow's intention was to kill Agent Mulder." 

Reardon snorted. "*Kill* him? Yeah, but that was just a side benefit.  
What Cam really wanted was to make him suffer, and have a front row  
seat. Like picking the legs off a bug, one at a time, he used to say.  
You stretch it out, make it last. You don't actually squash the bug  
until the very end." 

Mulder closed his eyes a moment before lurching to his feet and heading  
for the door. "I need some air," he muttered. 

Scully forced her own mask of detachment to remain firmly in place,  
though she badly wanted to wipe the look of amusement from Reardon's  
face. 

"I'm glad you find this entertaining, Mr. Reardon," she said coldly.  
"Since you'll wind up doing some serious time for this one. What is the  
standard sentence for first degree murder, sir?" She tossed the  
question casually over her shoulder, proud of the fact that her voice  
never wavered. 

"We're talking a minimum of life in prison, Agent Scully. The fact that  
Mulder is a federal agent adds to the seriousness of the crime. I'd say  
the death penalty is certainly a possibility." 

Scully only wished she had Mulder's eidetic memory so that she could  
savor the memory of Reardon's reaction over and over in the same  
glorious detail. Every bit of color drained from the man's face and his  
eyes nearly bugged out of his head. 

"Wait a minute, wait a minute! Cam was the one who injected him with  
that stuff! All I did was knock him over the head. I figure that's  
assault, maybe, but not murder!" 

"You participated in an act that may cause the death of a federal agent.  
An act that was premeditated, I might add," Skinner said gravely. 

"Oh, this is Assistant Director Skinner," Scully said, barely containing  
the glee in her voice. "I guess I forgot to introduce him." 

It was at that point that Reardon began to babble. 

Mulder was leaning against the car when Scully and Skinner finally  
exited the building. His eyes were closed, his face tilted up to absorb  
the warm rays of the sun. Scully joined him, her arm brushing his  
companionably. 

"Jackpot," she said quietly. 

Mulder opened his eyes and arched one eyebrow. 

"He doesn't know where Cardow lives, but he knows where he works. He's  
got a job at Georgetown University, as a custodian for the medical  
school. The graveyard shift." 

"Where there just happens to be plenty of empty labs stocked with  
chemicals and equipment," Mulder mused. "How'd you get him to talk?" 

Scully grinned at her boss. "Believe it or not, Skinner and I make a  
pretty good team." 

Mulder smirked. "Let me guess, sir. She was the 'bad cop,' am I right?" 

"Mulder, I had no idea how ruthless your partner could be. I can only  
say one thing -- be grateful she's on our side." 

Mulder looked at his partner, her expression, for the moment, relaxed  
and cheerful. He waited until he'd caught her eye before speaking. "I  
am, sir. Every day." 

Georgetown University  
The Research Building  
12:00 a.m.  
25 hours remaining 

"Why is orange the only color that's also a flavor?" 

Scully turned her head to take in her partner's profile, barely visible  
in the darkness. "What?" 

"You heard me. Why is orange the only color that's a flavor? I mean,  
think about it, Scully. Red things are cherry, purple things are grape.  
Why don't we call cherries reds? Or grapes purples?" 

"Mulder, we are sitting here in the dark, waiting for a deeply disturbed  
man who has injected you with a deadly toxin. What in God's name made  
you think of that?" 

Mulder shrugged. "Just the way my mind works, I guess." 

In the stillness of the deserted building, the labored quality of  
Mulder's breathing was unmistakable. When they'd returned from  
Arlington, and Skinner had left to check on things at the Bureau, Mulder  
had come to her for one of the painkillers prescribed by Dr. Wagner.  
He'd refused to meet her eyes, simply swallowing the pill with some  
chamomile tea and stretching out on his couch. As he'd predicted, the  
medication knocked him out, and he'd slept a full five hours, barely  
stirring. 

The respiratory problem must have developed during that time, for she'd  
noticed it immediately when he woke up. Scully tried not to think about  
the fact that it was gradually becoming more pronounced. He was still  
functioning well when sitting or lying down, but walking at more than a  
snail's pace had him panting as if he'd run a marathon. They hadn't  
spoken of it, since the implications were obvious. Skinner had shot  
Scully a worried frown when he'd returned an hour ago, but had said  
nothing. 

They'd called the university to ascertain Cardow's schedule, learning  
that he was due to work in the Research Building tonight. Now they  
waited, with Scully and Mulder positioned just inside the back entrance  
and Skinner covering the front. 

"You let me know if you have any other deep thoughts, Mulder," Scully  
said, feeling amused at his ruminations. Amused, yes, but so much more. 

Fearful. 

Heartbroken. 

Because a little voice inside her head, the one that listened to the  
relentlessly ticking clock, wouldn't stop whispering. *I'm going to miss  
him terribly. How can I even contemplate doing this without him?  
Baseball games on the radio. Discussing the gunmen's latest conspiracy  
theories. Debating whether Batman or Spiderman would win in a fair  
fight...* 

*All the ways his incredible mind works.* 

*I can't do this.* 

"Well, since you asked, there *is* the problem with the expressions  
people use. Have you ever really listened to them? None of them make a  
bit of sense, but everyone repeats them anyway. Sick as a dog. What's  
that supposed to mean? From what I can see, dogs rarely get sick." 

"Mulder?" 

"Yeah, Scully?" 

"I changed my mind. Shut up." 

She heard the slight chuffing sound of his laughter before he fell  
silent. She listened to the sound of his breathing for several minutes  
and wished with all her might that she were merely having an amazingly  
vivid dream. She wanted to wake up. Now. 

"Mulder?" 

"Hmm?" 

"I still wouldn't change anything." 

As always, he was right there with her. "Just the flukeman thing, huh?" 

She shook her head, feeling him fumble for her hand in the darkness.  
"Not even that. Mulder, I need you to know..." 

"*Don't*, Scully." 

The sharpness of his tone shocked her to silence. But when he spoke  
again his voice was warm and wistful. 

"There's a lot that's remained unsaid, Scully. On both sides. And  
someday we *will* say the words. But not here, and not now, like this. I  
don't want to wonder if you've said things because I may not be around  
tomorrow to hold you to them. And I don't want you to ever doubt my  
motives." 

Scully squeezed his hand, blinking back the tears that threatened. "I  
know. You're right. Anyway, once we catch Cardow tonight, we'll have all  
the time in the world for talking." 

Silence descended between them once more, and Scully found herself  
staring at the door, willing it to open. Mulder shifted restlessly  
beside her. 

"Hey, Scully?" 

"Yeah, Mulder." 

"Me too." 

The sound of footsteps and the jingle of keys aborted the smile that had  
begun to form on her lips. Scully scrambled to her feet and drew her  
weapon, sensing Mulder mirroring her actions. 

"Wait until he's all the way in the building," Mulder said sotto voice.  
"We don't want to lose him." 

The door opened, revealing a single figure silhouetted briefly by the  
moonlight before stepping inside and closing the door. Even in the poor  
lighting, Scully recognized the long hair and slight build from the  
police photo. It was Cameron Cardow. 

"Federal Agent! Don't move!" she warned, automatically lowering the  
pitch of her voice for more authority. 

The next ten seconds exploded in a kaleidoscope of fragmented images to  
which she could only react, allowing her training to take over. Cardow  
brought his hands up as if in surrender, but a sudden intense beam of  
light flared. Momentarily blinded, Scully fought the reflex to close her  
eyes against the piercing beam. She heard Mulder fire a warning shot,  
shouting for Cardow not to move, but then the light was flying in her  
direction. Something heavy narrowly missed hitting her in the head, and  
she heard the sound of retreating footsteps. 

Mulder was by her side in an instant, panting. "You all right?" 

"I'm fine. What *was* that?" 

Mulder stooped and picked up an object near her feet. It was a large,  
halogen flashlight, rendered useless by its impact with the floor. 

"He went into the stairwell. Call Skinner and let him know what's going  
on. There should be another stairwell near the entrance. Have him meet  
us on the second floor. With any luck, we can trap Cardow in between." 

Mulder's terse instructions were broken by gasps for breath. Scully  
could just make out a fine sheen of perspiration on his brow, and the  
hand holding his weapon trembled slightly. 

"Mulder..." 

"We're wasting time here, Scully," he cut her off sharply, reaching for  
the door to the stairwell. "Call Skinner." 

He'd disappeared before she could respond, and she swore softly under  
her breath while punching number four on the speed dial of her cell  
phone. 

"Skinner." 

"It's Scully. We surprised Cardow at the back entrance, but he gave us  
the slip. If you take the stairs to the second floor we may be able to  
flush him in your direction." 

She could feel Skinner hesitate, and knew his reservations only echoed  
her own. But all he said was, "I'm on it." 

Tucking the phone back into her pocket, Scully entered the dark  
stairwell and climbed swiftly and silently to the second floor. She  
paused just inside the hallway, trying desperately to get her bearings  
in the darkness. A long corridor stretched before her with doors on  
either side, spaced at intervals of about thirty feet. 

"Take the right side." Mulder's voice was so soft it was nearly  
inaudible. "He's here. I heard footsteps." 

Scully nodded, though she was doubtful Mulder would be able to see it.  
Raising her weapon, she cautiously pushed the first door open and  
slipped inside. She could detect the interior of a lab, aided by the  
light from a row of windows on the far wall. Several long lab benches  
filled the central portion of the room, with large pieces of equipment  
lining the walls. She moved catlike around the periphery, even checking  
in the kneehole of the large oak desk. Satisfied it was empty, she moved  
carefully out the door and down to the next. 

In retrospect, she should have noticed that the shelving unit was not  
flush with the wall. A chemical spill, she learned much later, had  
necessitated moving the unit an additional foot away from where it  
normally rested so that the floor could be cleaned. A man the size of  
Mulder could never have fit into the small space, but Cardow was a good  
thirty pounds lighter and small-boned. Scully hadn't traveled more than  
three steps past the unit, when she was seized from behind. Cardow  
pulled her close to his body, one hand clasped roughly over her lips and  
the other pressing a razor sharp object to her throat. 

"The tables have turned, Agent Scully," he whispered, pressing his mouth  
close to her left ear. "Now it's *your* turn to freeze." His breath  
smelled faintly of alcohol, and Scully couldn't repress a shudder at the  
feel of it against her skin. 

"You may as well turn yourself in, Cardow," she said with more assurance  
than she felt. "You aren't going to make it out of this building." 

Cardow chuckled, and she felt her skin crawl in response. 

"I don't want to make it out of the building. I must admit, this isn't  
exactly what I'd planned, but now that you're both here, I'm warming to  
the idea. Let's find Agent Mulder, shall we?" 

She complied, her mind working frantically for some alternative. She  
allowed herself to be shuffled out into the corridor, wincing once when  
Cardow pressed a little too firmly on her neck. She felt a warm trickle  
that signified he'd drawn blood. 

"Agent Mullllderrrr!" Cardow called in a slightly sing-song voice. "Come  
out, come out! It's time to renew our acquaintance." 

Scully struggled not to let her feet tangle as Cardow turned in a slow  
circle, searching for her partner. She could feel the man practically  
thrumming with nervous excitement, and her fear for Mulder ratcheted up  
another notch. The little she'd seen of Cardow so far had only served to  
confirm their suspicions that he was extremely unstable. 

"I'm right here. Let her go." 

Mulder's voice was thin and raspy, a pale imitation of his normally  
smooth tenor. Cardow spun quickly to face him and Scully stumbled,  
gasping when the blade pierced her flesh a second time. 

In the deep shadows it was difficult to get a good look at Mulder, but  
what she saw alarmed her. He leaned heavily against the doorway from  
which he'd appeared, and even from a distance she could hear how labored  
his breathing had grown. All she could see of his face was the  
occasional glitter of his eyes when the light struck them just so. 

"Hey, Agent Mulder. How are you? You don't look so good." 

Cardow's voice dripped honey in an obscene parody of concern. 

"This is between you and me, Cardow. Agent Scully has nothing to do with  
it. Let her go and we'll talk." 

Cardow's face twisted into a sneer. "You're wrong. She is a part of  
this, because you made her one. Now put down your gun and kick it toward  
me." 

"Mulder, don't!" Scully pleaded, only to be cut off by the blade at her  
throat. 

Mulder silently did as ordered. The gun skittered down the hallway  
before coming to rest about six inches from Cardow's left foot. 

"You're wrong about me, Cardow," Mulder said. "They used me just as much  
as they did you. I was only doing my job. I believed you were guilty." 

"Don't lie to me!" Cardow shrieked, spittle flying from his lips. "You  
think I don't know whose son you are? You honestly expect me to believe  
you weren't part of their agenda? I'm not a fool, Agent Mulder, despite  
what you all may think! Ten years ago you helped them take away a  
project that meant more to me than my own life. Now the fruits of that  
project will bring about the end of yours. How does it feel?" 

At the far end of the hallway, behind Cardow, Mulder saw a flicker of  
movement. Despite the sudden flare of hope the sight ignited, he  
deliberately kept his eyes on Cardow. Keep him talking. He can't figure  
out Skinner is behind him or he'll hurt Scully. 

"The project was to create a toxin to kill an alien life form, wasn't  
it?" 

"They told us we'd be responsible for saving the earth," Cardow spat.  
"That we'd be revered by future generations, just like Einstein and  
Pascal. Then they threw it all away! One bad test run with the black  
stuff they found in that rock, and they gave up. They wouldn't even  
listen when I told them I could fix it if given a chance. Five long  
years of blood, sweat, and tears, and they were determined to throw it  
all away after one bad trial!" 

"But I wouldn't let them. I turned in all my notes except for the actual  
formula for the toxin. I hid it on a disk and took it home so that I  
could come back and work on it after hours, when no one was around." 

"But someone saw you," Mulder said. Through the periphery of his vision  
he could see Skinner was closer now. 

"Yeah, and that's when they brought you in, isn't it? They killed  
Carolyn -- or were you in on that too? Poor, sweet Carolyn, whose only  
mistake was having cared about me. They killed her just to get rid of  
me! And you made sure I took the fall for it." 

Something in Cardow's demeanor changed, and Scully could feel it in the  
sudden calm that replaced the tension in his body. The nearly hysterical  
anger he'd been venting just a moment earlier abruptly evaporated, and  
he actually laughed softly. 

"I think I've just had an epiphany, Agent Mulder. I've so enjoyed the  
past two days, watching as my little creation slowly takes you apart  
piece by piece. Hard to conceive of it getting any better, but I just  
thought of a way." 

"You helped them take away the most important woman in my life, Agent  
Mulder. What if I return the favor?" He slowly lifted his free hand to  
caress Scully's hair, grinning when Mulder made an aborted lunge toward  
him. 

"She takes care of you, doesn't she? Making you tea when you're too sick  
to eat. Rubbing your shoulders when the muscle cramps are so painful you  
don't think you can bear it. But losing her would hurt far more than any  
of those physical torments, wouldn't it, Agent Mulder? From what I've  
seen, she's all you've got." 

"Cardow..." 

It was meant to sound threatening, but the name came out as a  
breathless, terrified, moan. Mulder could feel himself begin to  
hyperventilate, black spots dancing at the edges of his vision. 

"They spilled Carolyn's blood, remember Agent Mulder? Slit her wrists  
and left her there to slowly bleed to death, paralyzed and helpless.  
Agent Scully's death will actually be much more merciful. It doesn't  
take long to die once your jugular has been severed..." 

"Freeze, Cardow!" 

Skinner roared, startling Cardow into spinning around to face him. Yet  
he retained the presence of mind to keep Scully as a shield. 

"You'll have to shoot through her!" he warned, a high note of panic in  
his voice. 

Almost on autopilot, Mulder staggered to a crouch and removed the gun  
from his ankle holster. 

"I have my gun pointed at your head, Cardow," he gasped, blinking to  
clear vision that wavered in and out of focus. "It's over. Let her go." 

Cardow glanced over his shoulder and smiled. "You won't shoot me,  
Mulder. I'm your only hope. There is an antidote -- did I forget to  
mention that? Kill me, and any chance of a cure dies with me." 

The hand holding the blade twitched closer, biting more deeply into the  
pale skin of Scully's neck. 

"Stop, Cardow!" Skinner bellowed. 

"I'll shoot! Do you hear me?" Mulder screamed, the gun wavering as he  
struggled to hold it steady. 

"Mulder, don't!" Scully cried. 

The shot rang out before she'd finished speaking the words. Scully felt  
the body behind her convulse, and the pressure on her neck increased  
slightly before abruptly ceasing. Cardow slid to the floor with a  
muffled thump. She knew before turning around that he was dead. 

Cardow lay crumpled on the tile, his eyes staring sightlessly at the  
ceiling and a large part of the back of his head missing. Skinner was at  
her side an instant later, a steadying hand on her elbow when she swayed  
slightly. 

"Easy, Scully. Deep breaths." 

Which brought her as quickly back into focus as if he'd slapped her.  
"Mulder?" 

He'd slid down against the wall until he was seated on the floor. His  
face was bathed in sweat, and his respirations were little more than  
ineffectual gulps for air. Even in the darkened hallway she could see  
that his lips were turning blue from lack of oxygen. 

"Call 911," she told Skinner, removing Mulder's tie and unbuttoning the  
top of his shirt with trembling fingers. 

Mulder turned glazed eyes on her face. "You...okay?" 

Scully bit her lip hard to stave off the tears. "Thanks to you." 

Mulder lifted his hand to trace the cut at her neck with his index  
finger. "Bastard." 

The full impact of the last 30 minutes finally caught up with her, and  
Scully could no longer rein in her emotions. Tears filled her eyes and  
overflowed as she reached out to cup his cheek. 

"Why'd you do it, Mulder? He was your only chance. You could have tried  
for his leg, his shoulder..." 

Mulder's expression was weary, but peaceful. "Too risky. Cardow...was  
right. You...all I've got." 

As Mulder's eyes slipped shut, Scully heard the wail of sirens in the  
distance. 

Georgetown Medical Center  
8:04 a.m.  
17 hours remaining 

He barely recognized her when he stepped into the small ICU waiting  
room. If not for the bright curtain of auburn hair that effectively  
concealed her facial features, Skinner would have thought he was looking  
at a stranger. The Dana Scully he knew was strong, retaining her  
composure in even the most horrendous situations. Some mistook this  
strength for coldness, snidely whispering nicknames like "Ice Queen"  
behind her back. Skinner knew they couldn't be more wrong. Dana Scully  
had a warm and loving heart. And right now it was shattering, even as he  
watched. 

She sat on the hard plastic chair, slumped forward with her face buried  
in her hands. He could just catch a glimpse of white at her throat,  
indicating that someone at the hospital had been brave enough to  
convince her that the throat wound should be treated. When the  
paramedics had arrived at the scene, she'd become nearly hostile at the  
suggestion that she allow one of them to look at her injury. For Scully,  
Mulder's plight eclipsed all other concerns, rendering them  
inconsequential. 

When after several minutes she hadn't raised her head, Skinner cleared  
his throat. "Scully?" 

She showed him a face stained with despair and old tears. "Sir." 

Skinner sat down beside her, feeling all the words he wanted to say dry  
up and crumble to dust. What do you say to someone who is about to lose  
half of herself? 

"What's his condition?" 

Scully's voice was as dull and colorless as the walls around them. "He  
stopped breathing twice on the way here. They've got him on a  
ventilator, but he's seized twice in the last several hours. One was  
four minutes long. They'd be concerned about brain damage except at this  
point it really doesn't matter." 

Skinner closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Not for the first time, he  
wished it were easier for him to express his feelings, to offer comfort.  
His father had been a good man, but one who firmly believed that to be  
strong meant to bury your feelings deeply. He supposed such training had  
served him well in certain situations. This was not one of them. 

Scully's next words, however, brought that particular wall crashing  
down. "After everything we've seen, after everything we've been through,  
it shouldn't end like this. He's spent his entire life trying to help  
other people in one way or another. It's not fair that he's going to die  
because of something he never even did. He deserves so much better."  
Scully's voice caught, but she ruthlessly held back her tears. "I feel  
as if I've let him down." 

Skinner's arm slipped around her shoulders almost of its own accord,  
surprising even him. "Scully. I've known Mulder for ten years. I've seen  
what he was before you came into his life, and I've seen what he's  
become since. He was floundering before you became partners, Scully.  
You've focused him, grounded him. He's a better agent because of you. In  
no sense of the word have you let that man down." 

A single tear slipped down Scully's cheek and she brushed it impatiently  
away. "Thank you, sir." After taking a deep breath she seemed to pull  
herself together. "You wrapped up things at the university?" 

Skinner nodded, relieved to be discussing facts rather than feelings.  
"There'll be an inquiry into the shooting, of course. It's just routine.  
Mulder had every justification for using deadly force." 

He hesitated momentarily before continuing. "We searched Cardow and his  
vehicle, Scully. There was no sign of the formula or an antidote, and no  
indication where he's been living. I have men still going through the  
building, but frankly I'm not hopeful." 

Scully nodded. "I expected as much. Cardow was a lunatic, but he was a  
brilliant lunatic." 

Before Skinner could reply, the door to the room opened and a doctor  
stepped inside. Skinner recognized the man from Mulder's previous stay  
at George Washington Medical. Evidently the man had privileges at  
Georgetown as well. 

"Dr. Wagner." 

Scully was on her feet and across the room before Skinner had finished  
processing the man's identity. "How is he?" 

Wagner nodded at Skinner as he joined them, before turning his attention  
back to Scully. "He's stable, but very weak. We had to switch the  
ventilator to 100 percent; he's incapable of sustaining any respiration  
on his own. The seizures appear to be under control, for now, but I'm  
sure you realize there's not much we can do at this point." 

"Is he conscious?" 

Wagner made a see saw motion with his hand. "He's in and out. We've got  
him on some pretty heavy painkillers, but we can't eliminate the pain  
entirely. All we can do is try to keep him as comfortable as possible."  
He shifted uncomfortably. "I've seen Agent Mulder's living will. The  
terms for termination of life support are quite specific. When the time  
comes, I'll have to abide by them. You're aware of this?" 

His words pierced Scully's fragile composure, and she pressed her hand  
tightly to her mouth for several moments before she could speak. 

"We filled out our living wills at the same time. I'm aware of what  
Agent Mulder wants. Can we see him?" 

Wagner nodded, his face radiating compassion. "I've instructed the ICU  
nurses to suspend the usual rules regarding visits. As long as the other  
patients aren't disturbed, he can have visitors at any time." 

"Thank you." The words were little more than a whisper. 

Wagner nodded again. He turned to leave, but paused. "I'm very sorry,  
Dr. Scully. I wish I could do more." 

Skinner held the door for Scully before following her down the long  
hall. The hushed atmosphere and grave expressions attested all too  
clearly to the dire circumstances of the patients on this floor. 

"Have you called his mother?" he asked quietly. 

Scully nodded. "She hasn't been well. She wants to be here, but wasn't  
sure she could make the trip in time." 

They'd reached Mulder's cubicle, and Scully went immediately to his  
bedside. Skinner took in the plethora of machinery and his agent's limp,  
nearly lifeless form. He swallowed thickly, unable to reconcile the form  
in the bed with the vital, passionate man he knew. 

Scully slipped her hand into Mulder's and stroked the back gently with  
her thumb. "Hey, Partner. You gonna wake up for me?" 

At first there was no response, just the beeping of the heart monitor  
and the hissing of the respirator as it rhythmically filled and emptied  
his lungs. Scully blinked rapidly, reaching her other hand to smooth his  
hair. 

"Come on, Mulder. Show me you're in there." 

His eyelids twitched, causing hope to spring up within her. 

"That's it. You can do it." 

They finally slid open after several aborted attempts. As his gaze  
locked onto her face, Scully saw he wasn't even attempting to fight the  
ventilator. She realized, with an ache that was almost physical, how  
truly weak he must be. 

"Wagner says they've got you on the good stuff," Scully said, trying to  
sound cheerful. She failed miserably, even to her own ears. "Do you need  
anything?" 

Mulder blinked once. It was an old system they'd devised during a time  
he'd been on a ventilator previously. One blink meant no, two signified  
yes. 

"I called your mother, Mulder. She's trying to get here, but it's hard  
with her health problems." 

Mulder rolled his eyes, the motion exaggerated. No words were needed to  
communicate that thought. His gaze softened, and in spite of his  
weakness he managed to raise one hand enough indicate the bandage at her  
throat. 

"I'm fine, Mulder. It was just a scratch, didn't even require stitches.  
Guess I won't be sporting the Frankenstein look this season." 

One corner of his mouth curved slightly, but his eyes were already  
slipping shut. Scully could see him struggling against the sleep that  
wanted to pull him under. 

"It's okay, Mulder," she said, unable to mask the tremor in her voice.  
"You sleep now." 

She let her fingers weave soothingly through his hair, watching as he  
slid back into a drugged slumber. The tightness in her chest was  
unbearable. She wanted to scream and curse and throw things. She wanted  
to punish someone. 

"I wish that son of a bitch were still alive," she growled, turning to  
face Skinner. "I wish I could make him suffer every bit as much as  
Mulder, and more. How dare he inflict this horror on another human being  
and then watch..." 

Skinner saw a look of shock descend over Scully's previously enraged  
face. "Scully? What is it? Are you all right?" 

"He watched us," she murmured, almost to herself. 

"I know. He was deeply disturbed, Scully, there's no other explanation..." 

Scully shook her head, impatience making her appear angry. "NO! You  
aren't getting it! Cardow watched Mulder and I. Do you remember what he  
said? She makes you tea when you can't eat. She rubs your neck... Sir,  
those things happened inside Agent Mulder's apartment. How could he have  
known?" 

"Unless he could see into Mulder's place from wherever he was," Skinner  
said, understanding. 

"There's an apartment building right across the street from Mulder's,"  
Scully said, excitement replacing shock. 

"Then we're wasting time, aren't we?" Skinner said grimly. 

Flashing him a look of gratitude, Scully turned back to Mulder. Ignoring  
the fact that Skinner was just behind her, she leaned over to place a  
soft kiss on Mulder's forehead. 

"I'll be right back, Mulder," she whispered, stroking his pale cheek.  
"Don't you dare leave me, or I'll never do a single one of your expense  
reports." 

Leaving him now was one of the hardest things she'd had to do; yet a  
sudden, bright spark of hope balanced the ache in her heart. 

Wilshire Towers - Apt. 407  
10:53 a.m.  
14 hours remaining 

Scully stood back to allow the manager to use her passkey. She tried  
desperately not to fidget (a behavior unbecoming to a federal agent) but  
realized she'd lost the battle when she found herself shifting her  
weight back and forth between her two feet. Her one consolation was that  
she'd noticed Skinner unconsciously drumming his fingers. 

"I really find it hard to believe Mr. Connors could have done those  
things you mentioned," clucked Mrs. Bruett, oblivious to the tension in  
the two people behind her. "He really seemed like such a nice young man.  
He never played loud music and he was always so polite." 

Clenching her teeth to avoid screaming, Scully smiled thinly. "Well,  
that's how it is with some criminals. They project a falsely positive  
image to most of the people who know them. Only upon careful examination  
is their true nature revealed." 

Mercifully, the key finally slid home and the door swung open. "Can I be  
of any more assistance to you folks?" Norma Bruett asked, craning her  
neck a little to catch a glimpse of the apartment. Though partly  
horrified to learn that a murderer had lived in her building, she was  
also more than slightly intrigued. After all, she'd never been in the  
apartment of a hardened criminal before. 

Stepping between Norma and the inside, Skinner shook his head politely.  
"We can handle it from here, Mrs. Bruett. It would be best if you just  
go back downstairs and leave us to do our jobs." 

"Very well then, Mr. Skinner," she said with a slight huff. "Never let  
it be said that Norma Bruett obstructed justice." 

In any other instance Scully would have felt amusement at the elderly  
woman's nosiness. But all she could see was Mulder's white face, his  
chest mechanically rising and falling with each forced breath. All she  
could hear was the ticking of the clock as the minutes slipped by at  
what seemed to be an ever-increasing rate. 

She followed Skinner into the apartment, her eyes roaming to take in  
every detail as they walked through the galley style kitchen and into a  
dining area with a small table and two chairs. The rooms were Spartan in  
their neatness and in the lack of furnishings. Evidently Cardow had not  
been concerned with making this apartment a home. When they reached the  
living room, however, one object commanded their complete attention. 

The living room contained one big picture window that overlooked the  
street and, ultimately, Mulder's apartment complex. Positioned directly  
in front of the window was a large and undoubtedly expensive telescope.  
Skinner watched as Scully silently crossed to the device and looked  
through the eyepiece. What she observed caused her to pull back  
suddenly, as if burned. 

"It's lined up perfectly," she told Skinner, horror written on her face.  
"You can see right through the window by Mulder's desk. Mulder likes to  
keep those blinds closed, but whenever I'm over I make him open them..." 

Seeing that Scully was understandably shaken, Skinner decided to give  
her some space. "I'll check the bedroom." 

Scully nodded and numbly set about searching the room for anything that  
might lead her to the antidote. She was perusing several of the books on  
the shelf when Skinner called her. 

"Scully. I think you'd better see this." 

Alarmed at what lay unspoken in his words, Scully immediately replaced  
the book and followed the sound of his voice down a short hallway to the  
single bedroom. She halted just inside the doorway, speechless. 

Cardow had a shrine -- except you couldn't really call it that. A shrine  
was meant to honor or revere, while the effect achieved here was the  
exact opposite. A rolltop desk was the only piece of furniture aside  
from the double bed. On the desk lay an expensive camera with a  
telephoto lens. On the walls surrounding the desk Cardow had pasted the  
products of the camera. Pictures of Mulder. Mulder with his eyes screwed  
shut in pain. Mulder lying on the ground outside his building,  
unconscious and bleeding from the blow to his head. Mulder on his hands  
and knees, vomiting. Mulder sitting at his desk, weeping, never knowing  
a camera was recording the rare display of tears. 

Scully swallowed hard, resisting the brutal wave of nausea that crashed  
into her at the sight. She sagged against the wall, grateful for its  
support. "We thought he was unstable," she said, feeling as if the words  
came from a great distance. "We had no idea what we were dealing with." 

"There's more," Skinner said, grimly apologetic. 

He handed her a thick scrapbook, and she felt her skin crawl at the feel  
of the smooth leather. Irrational as it might be, she suddenly wanted  
nothing to do with the book. Steeling herself, she flipped open the  
cover. A newspaper clipping caught her attention. "FBI Profile Leads to  
Arrest." She scanned the article quickly, already knowing what she would  
find. 

"It's the Monty Propps case. Mulder's case." 

"They're all Mulder's cases, or articles dealing with Mulder. He's even  
got copies of the articles Mulder wrote under that pen name. There three  
of these volumes," Skinner said, gesturing to two more identical tomes. 

Scully flipped through the pages, seeing Mulder's life over the past ten  
years unfold before her eyes. "He must have been saving these the whole  
time he was in prison," she said, both amazed and repulsed. 

"To say he was obsessed is an understatement," Skinner observed dryly.  
"My guess is that Cardow was always a few cards short of a full deck. It  
was the loss of his work and his subsequent murder conviction that  
pushed him 'round the bend." 

Scully stared at a photo of the two of them, taken after a case from the  
early days of their partnership. Mulder's hand was raised in the classic  
"no comment" gesture, but he was looking down at her with a slight  
smile. She traced his face with a trembling finger, thinking how young  
they both looked back then. At the moment, standing before Cardow's sick  
gallery, she felt as if she'd aged a hundred years rather than just six. 

The sound of Skinner opening desk drawers snapped her back into focus.  
Scully placed the book with the other three and scanned the room,  
frowning. 

"There's got to be a computer. Cardow said he had the formula on a  
disk." 

"Laptop, next to the bed on the other side," Skinner said. 

She booted up the computer while Skinner continued to search. The files  
on the hard drive were straightforward and completely useless.  
Addresses. A resume. Nothing to indicate Cardow was continuing his nasty  
little experiment on a human subject. Nothing to help Mulder. 

A loud crash pulled her attention from the laptop to Skinner. He stood  
with the contents of the desk strewn about his feet, cursing under his  
breath. Feeling Scully's eyes on him, he looked suddenly embarrassed by  
his outburst. 

"Any luck?" 

Scully shook her head, feeling the bright spark of hope she'd been  
nursing begin to flicker and die. "Nothing." 

"It has to be here," Skinner growled, glaring up at the wall of photos.  
"I can just see him using these damn photos for inspiration while he  
worked." 

A strange expression crossed his features, and he strode closer to the  
wall. Reaching out with both hands, he began to run them over the  
surfaces of the pictures, face intent. A moment later he had ripped one  
from the wall and was approaching Scully with a disk in his fingers. 

She plugged it into the drive only to groan in frustration. 

"It's password-protected!" 

She immediately began typing in possibilities, fingers flying over the  
keys. At each harsh beep of rejection, they shook a little more. 

"What about the three stooges?" Skinner suggested, trying not to hang  
over her shoulder but unable to help himself. 

"That will take time, and Mulder's is running out." 

Another beep of refusal and Scully barely restrained herself from  
flinging the laptop across the room. Instead she scrubbed at her eyes,  
wiping away tears of frustration. 

"I've tried every word I can think of, every variation of Mulder's name,  
anything that Cardow would relate to his obsession with Mulder. Nothing  
is working!" 

Skinner laid a calming hand on her shoulder. "Step back for a minute,  
Scully. We're closer than we've ever been. Don't let this rattle you." 

Scully sighed deeply and Skinner could see her physically forcing  
herself to relax. She closed her eyes and tried to picture Cameron  
Cardow. Unfortunately, the image that sprang immediately to mind was of  
being tightly clutched against the man's body, a sharp blade pressed to  
her throat. She could hear him vividly, ranting about Mulder's supposed  
crimes against him and threatening to spill her blood just like... 

"Could it be that simple?" she muttered. 

Very carefully she typed each letter. 

C A R O L Y N 

With a shaking hand she hit return. 

And with a soft chime Mulder's life was placed back into her eager hands. 

Georgetown Medical Center  
3:00 p.m.  
10 hours remaining 

Death hovered at Mulder's side like a concerned friend, a nearly  
tangible presence. Skinner caught the disapproving glare of a nurse and  
forced himself to stop pacing, dropping into the chair at Mulder's left  
hand. For the fifth time in as many minutes, he checked his watch. 

*Hurry Scully. Hurry or it will be too late.* 

He was unable to look at the man before him without feeling as if he'd  
been sucker punched. Skinner was a little surprised by the intensity of  
emotion. Surprised, and perhaps unwilling to accept just how far Mulder  
had gotten under his skin. His normally very thick, very impenetrable  
skin. 

Skinner held no illusions about himself. He realized he tended to remain  
emotionally isolated from those closest to him. It was the chief cause  
for the slow breakdown of his marriage. Though his father's similar  
detachment was certainly a contributor, Viet Nam had taught him a  
powerful lesson about the consequences of opening up to others. 

It was ironic that Fox Mulder, the bureau's problem child, had succeeded  
where even Sharon had failed. Why, was an X-File in and of itself. 

Skinner only knew that he couldn't reveal pieces of his soul to someone  
he didn't respect, and the list of those he did was short. Mulder and  
Scully had earned a place on that list. 

Skinner looked at the still form, so unlike the Fox Mulder he'd come to  
know. Many of the rumors he'd heard before becoming Mulder's supervisor  
were true. Yes, the man was a maverick, not above breaking any rule he  
thought foolish or unnecessary. Yes, he could be arrogant, abrasive, and  
downright rude. And yes, he could spout a theory that sounded as if he'd  
gone completely 'round the bend, looking you straight in the eye the  
entire time. All those observations were true; and they were the reason  
Mulder, universally acknowledged for his brilliance, occupied a basement  
office about as far off the fast track as you could get. 

Those who made such observations did so by barely bothering to scratch  
the surface of the man before dismissing him. Skinner knew that with  
Mulder, the carefully-crafted exterior was deceptive. You had only to  
dig to find gold. Scully, fortunately for her partner, had rolled up her  
sleeves and pulled out a shovel. 

Mulder might break the rules, but his motives were usually pure. Skinner  
was an ex-marine who believed deeply in rules and the importance of  
following them. Mulder's lackadaisical treatment of procedure infuriated  
him, but even he had to admit that often, Mulder's instincts were  
correct. 

Mulder's abrasiveness was simple for Skinner to understand. Where  
Skinner used a rigid and stern demeanor to hold others at arm's length,  
Mulder just tried to irritate the heck out of them. Underneath, however,  
was a soul scarred by a myriad of abuses, yet still able to empathize  
with the wounds of others. Mulder truly absorbed the pain of a victim,  
sometimes until he bled inside. 

As to Mulder's bottomless supply of outlandish theories, well, he had an  
uncanny habit of being right. Skinner discovered with great amusement  
that he'd been coming up with a few extreme possibilities himself. 

Footsteps, and Dr. Wagner pulled aside the curtain to approach Mulder's  
bed. He lifted Mulder's chart and then began to silently examine him,  
waving for Skinner to remain seated. Skinner watched uneasily as Wagner  
checked Mulder's pupil response and poked him several times with a  
large, needle-like object. When he finally replaced the blanket and  
turned to Skinner, his face was grave. 

"Will Dr. Scully be joining you soon?" 

"She's at the bureau labs, working with them on the antidote we found,"  
Skinner answered, rising to his feet and placing himself between the  
doctor and Mulder in an unconscious gesture of protection. 

Wagner sighed, and glanced around the room as if searching for the right  
words. "Mr. Skinner, I won't pull any punches. Mr. Mulder's condition  
has continued to deteriorate. He's slipped more deeply into a comatose  
state. Right now he's very close to achieving the conditions outlined in  
his living will. We'll be required to make a decision soon, and as his  
next of kin, Dr. Scully needs to be here." 

Skinner's mouth went dry. "You can't give up on him yet. There *is* an  
antidote to this toxin. Dr. Scully is overseeing its synthesis and  
determining a treatment plan at this very moment." 

Wagner had been nodding his head in commiseration, but when Skinner  
finished he pursed his lips and frowned. "I can understand wanting to  
believe in a magic cure, Mr. Skinner. But frankly, I can't conceive of  
anything that could save Mr. Mulder at this point. His systems are  
shutting down, sir. I think you need to accept the inevitable." 

Though he knew the doctor meant well, anger flared in Skinner at the  
man's words. "Listen to me, Dr. Wagner. That man has never given up on  
anything in his whole life. I've seen him go literally to the ends of  
the earth to save his partner, when anyone else wouldn't have been able  
to get out of bed. I will *not* give up on him. And I won't let you,  
either." 

"What do you mean, give up?" 

Scully's voice, breathless and tinged with panic, caused both men to  
startle. Skinner moved aside to make room for her. She seemed unable to  
drag her eyes from Mulder, and when she did they were haunted. 

"Is he..." 

"Hanging in there for us," Skinner assured her. He noticed she was  
clutching an insulated container, and his heart leaped in hope. "Is that  
it?" 

Scully nodded, hope and fear warring for control of her features. "It's  
a risk, of course. We had no time to wait for the results on the lab  
trials. But Cardow's notes were very specific and it feels right." She  
blushed a little at the un-Scullylike nature of her words. 

"Whoa, slow down, " Wagner said, holding up both hands. "I can't believe  
what I'm hearing. You just concocted some...substance, based on the  
notes of a man you yourselves have called crazy, and you intend to  
*inject* Mr. Mulder with it? Have you lost your minds?" 

*Uh-oh* thought Skinner. *Bad choice of words, buddy.* 

Scully's lips thinned. "Not only do I *intend* to inject him, Dr.  
Wagner. I *will* inject him. A minute ago you were talking about  
removing him from life support. The way I see it, we have absolutely  
nothing left to lose, and everything to gain. So I suggest you step  
aside and let me proceed. I'd hate to have to use my gun." 

It took an enormous amount of self-control for Skinner to hide his  
smirk, and he congratulated himself on his success. Wagner looked  
amazingly like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. While  
Scully moved over to the bed and began to remove a vial and syringe from  
the pack, the doctor sidled closer to Skinner. 

"She was just kidding...wasn't she?" 

Skinner adopted his most grim assistant director look. "Well, she did  
shoot her own partner once. It's wise not to upset her." 

Wagner gulped. "I have to finish the rest of my rounds. I'll check back  
in a little while." 

Skinner watched him go before breaking into a grin. *Mulder, you would  
have loved that.* 

Scully had injected the contents of the syringe directly into Mulder's  
IV, and now stood scanning his face anxiously, his hand clasped between  
her own. 

"We've done our part, Mulder," she murmured. "Now, you have to do  
yours." 

One hour crawled by, then two and three. By the end of the third hour,  
the monitors began to show gradual improvement. At four hours, Mulder  
moaned when Wagner stuck him with his torture device and his pupils  
responded to light. At Scully's request, Wagner allowed her to draw a  
blood sample that Skinner sent by courier to the bureau lab for  
analysis. Six hours after the initial injection, they waited anxiously  
for the results. When Scully's cell phone finally rang, the nurse sent  
them a malevolent look and Skinner nearly jumped out of his skin. 

He shamelessly attempted to eavesdrop, but Scully's responses were  
either to obscure or too technical. Still, it was completely unnecessary  
to ask the results when she closed the phone and met his questioning  
gaze with a blinding smile. 

"It's working!" she said, a look of wonder on her face. "Randy said it's  
incredible. The antidote is binding with each individual molecule of the  
toxin and rendering it inactive. The process is gradual, but the effects  
of the toxin are gradually being turned off." Her eyes glistened with  
unshed tears. "We did it, sir. He's going to make it." 

Skinner looked at Mulder, shaking his head. "He deserves half the  
credit, Scully. He managed to hang on, if only by a slender thread. I'm  
beginning to think he has more lives than a cat." 

Scully closed her eyes wearily, fatigue settling over her slumped form.  
"Please sir, don't even say it. I'd rather not have the opportunity to  
test that particular theory." 

Skinner smiled wryly. "I'm going on a coffee run. If I have to drink any  
more of the sludge around here I may just wind up hospitalized with him.  
Can I bring you a cup?" 

Scully looked as if he'd offered her a million dollars. "That's without  
a doubt the best offer I've had all day." 

Amused by her eager acceptance, Skinner stood up. "I won't be long." 

Scully settled back into the chair, smothering a yawn. She needed sleep  
desperately, but refused to give into the fatigue. Mulder's vital signs  
showed a steady progression toward regaining consciousness, and she was  
determined to be awake when he did. 

"You did good, Mulder," she said softly, moving to perch on the bed. She  
laced her fingers with his and used her other hand to stroke his cheek.  
"Now, I just need you to come all the way back. Think of it as my reward  
for finding Cardow's little secret." 

To her delight, the feel of her knuckles on his cheek seemed to be  
causing him to surface. His eyelids fluttered and the monitors beeped  
accordingly. Scully continued the action, keeping up a steady flow of  
encouragement. After several minutes he managed to raise his eyes to  
half-mast. They stared through her uncomprehendingly for a moment before  
sliding in to focus on her face. Then he did the most wonderful thing  
Scully could imagine at that particular moment. He began to fight the  
respirator. 

Scully pressed the call button but a nurse had already arrived, alerted  
by the change in the readouts. Wagner had agreed to attempt the removal  
of the respirator once Mulder regained consciousness, so he was quickly  
summoned and within five minutes he'd removed the tube and Mulder was  
breathing on his own. 

When at last Dr. Wagner had completed the required neuro checks he shook  
his head in amazement. "I've never seen anything like it," he admitted a  
bit sheepishly, avoiding Scully's pointed stare. "I've never seen such a  
rapid reversal of symptoms in someone in your condition, Mr. Mulder." 

Scully looked into her partner's tired but peaceful gaze. "I tried to  
tell you, Dr. Wagner," she said, smiling. "You have to believe in  
extreme possibilities." 

Mulder actually grinned. 

Once Dr. Wagner and the nurse actually left them in peace, Mulder looked  
at Scully searchingly. "How?" 

The single word was barely audible, and he grimaced at the effect on his  
abused throat. Scully reached for the cup of ice chips and spooned a few  
into his mouth. Mulder sighed in pleasure as they melted, sending cool  
liquid to soothe the raw tissues. 

"How did we find the antidote?" Scully asked, offering him more ice. 

Mulder nodded, accepting another spoonful. 

Scully shrugged. "It was actually Cardow who gave me the clue I needed.  
Remember when he was ranting about me taking care of you, making you  
tea? I realized he couldn't possibly have known those things unless he  
was actually able to see us." 

Understanding seeped into Mulder's face. "The building across the  
street," he rasped. 

Scully nodded, putting down the cup and slipping her hand into his. "He  
had a telescope trained right on your window, Mulder. The entire time we  
were at your place, he was enjoying the show." 

She noted the way he closed his eyes, swallowing hard, and decided  
Cardow's bedroom decorations could wait for another day. Mulder was  
already tiring, and he looked as if a strong breeze could blow him away. 

"It took a little creative thinking, but Skinner found the disk with the  
formula and the rest, as they say, is history." 

Mulder's eyes seemed to be developing a mind of their own, determined to  
slip shut despite his struggles to prevent them. Scully ran her fingers  
gently up and down his arm, amused when the action had a magnifying  
affect on his inability to stay alert. 

"Sleep now, Mulder. I promise I'll give you all the details later." 

His lids remained shut and his breathing steadied and deepened. She was  
certain he'd dropped off until his voice startled her. 

"Didn't think I was gonna wake up, Scully," he mumbled, sounding only  
marginally awake. 

Scully's throat was suddenly painfully tight. "I'm not letting you go  
that easily, Mulder. You're not sticking me with that stack of reports  
you owe Skinner." 

Mulder's eyes cracked open briefly, just long enough for her to see them  
gleaming under his lashes. 

"Thanks, Scully." 

He'd slipped into a deep slumber almost before the words passed his  
lips. 

Scully gazed at him, drinking in each tiny detail like a glass of water  
on a blistering summer day. The warmth of his long fingers twined with  
hers. The soft, natural rise and fall of his chest under her small hand.  
And the steady beep of the heart monitor, which to her grateful ears  
seemed to be endlessly repeating one joyous word... 

*A-live* 

*A-live* 

*A-live* 

"Any time, Mulder," she whispered. "That's what partners are for." 

Georgetown Medical Center  
Room 327  
20 hours later 

Skinner heard Scully laughing softly as he approached Mulder's room. He  
paused a moment to savor the sound. It was a rare pleasure to  
experience. Scully rationed her laughter, more often bestowing a slight  
curve of her lips or even a smirk. Therefore when she did laugh, you  
didn't take it for granted. Today, it spoke volumes about her joy and  
relief over Mulder's steady recovery. 

Skinner entered the room to find Scully perched on the edge of Mulder's  
bed, reading from one of the trashy magazines found predominantly at  
grocery store checkouts. She was dressed casually in jeans and a white  
tee shirt with her hair pulled back in a small ponytail, a few stubborn  
wisps falling forward to frame her face. Skinner couldn't help but think  
how she seemed to have shed ten years in the last twenty-four hours. Her  
blue eyes sparkled, the circles beneath them already fading. 

Mulder, though much improved, still looked like hell. It had been close  
this time, far too close. He had literally been on death's doorstep, and  
it would take time for him to regain full health. Though he'd been able  
to move off the respirator late last night, tests continued to show  
reduced lung capacity. The I.V. in his arm still carried a hefty amount  
of morphine for the muscle spasms, but thankfully he'd remained free of  
seizures. What he needed the most now was rest so that his abused body  
could recoup. Skinner found it slightly amusing that Mulder, the world's  
worst insomniac, could only remain awake for about thirty minutes at a  
time before crashing. 

"Conducting research for your next 302, Mulder?" Skinner asked, folding  
his arms and indicating the magazine with a tilt of his head. 

"You never know, sir," Mulder said, voice still raspy from having a tube  
down his throat. "Today's tabloid headline may just be tomorrow's  
flukeman." 

The remark was tossed off lightly, but Skinner looked at Mulder sharply.  
Something in the man's tone was wrong, a sharper edge of sarcasm that  
didn't fit with the words. He studied his agent, taking in the lines of  
pain and exhaustion around the hazel eyes, and chalked it up to a bad  
case of fatigue. 

"Literally," Scully said, wrinkling her nose as if she'd just detected a  
particularly bad smell. "We never did find that thing, after all." 

Mulder's eyes warmed with affection as he listened to Scully speak, and  
Skinner decided he'd definitely imagined the melancholy he'd sensed  
earlier. 

"I just bumped into your doctor, Mulder," he said conversationally.  
"He's pleased with your progress. Said if you keep this up you'll be  
home in a few days and back to work in no time." 

This time he knew he wasn't imagining the shadow that fell over Mulder's  
face. "That's good to hear, sir. I wouldn't want things at the office to  
fall apart during my absence." 

Again, the comment was innocent, and yet Skinner sensed an undercurrent  
of darkness. Mulder's eyes skittered away when he tried to pin them  
down. 

*He's trying too hard* Skinner thought. *Something's not right.* 

"...were dehydrated, Mulder. You need to keep pushing fluids." 

Skinner pulled himself out of his own thoughts in time to hear Scully  
speaking to her partner in voice that was half coaxing, half doctor's  
orders. He watched as Mulder put on what he thought of as the "abandoned  
puppy" face, lip stuck out in an exaggerated pout and eyes soulful. 

"They don't have anything but juice and lousy water from that crummy  
little pitcher, Scully. Why can't I drink something I would enjoy, like  
iced tea?" 

Scully, obviously also aware of the purpose for that look, rolled her  
eyes. "Caffeine, Mulder. No tea or soda yet, remember?" When he  
continued to pout, she relented, her stern expression softening. "I've  
got a couple of bottles of Evian in the car. Will that do?" 

"Thanks, Scully. I owe you." 

"I'm keeping track, Mulder," she teased, getting to her feet. 

It was meant strictly as a joke, but Skinner caught the expression of  
sadness in Mulder's eyes before his carefully constructed mask slipped  
back into place. 

Scully leaned over to plant a quick kiss on his forehead before moving  
toward the door. Skinner waited until she'd left the room before  
feigning that he'd suddenly remembered something. 

"Hang on a minute, Mulder. I need Scully to bring me some paperwork from  
her briefcase." 

He caught her just before she reached the elevators, nearly knocking  
over a nurse in his haste. Scully pulled her hand away from the buttons,  
arching an eyebrow questioningly. 

"Did you need something from me, sir?" 

Skinner took hold of her elbow and drew her aside to a quieter corner of  
the hallway. "I was hoping you could shed some light on whatever it is  
that's bothering your partner," he said, trying to sound concerned and  
not demanding. 

Scully searched his face only a moment before sighing. "You noticed it  
too." 

Skinner nodded. "Not that he isn't doing his best to hide it," he  
observed. 

Scully pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. When she  
opened them, Skinner saw a worry that mirrored his own. 

"I don't know what to tell you, sir. I noticed after he woke up the  
first time; at least, the first time he was over the initial shock and  
really lucid. The man should be on the top of the world -- he's just  
been given his life back. He tries to appear happy, but he's only  
putting up a good front. Underneath I sense..." 

"Depression," Skinner finished. 

Scully nodded. "I've tried find out what's wrong, but he's not talking.  
Not to me, anyway." 

"He's been given a lot to absorb over the past few days, and sustained a  
significant trauma in the process. It's easy to become overwhelmed. I've  
seen it before." 

Scully studied his face, not missing the oblique reference to Skinner's  
combat experience. "Maybe he'd talk to you, sir." 

Skinner looked comically stunned at the idea. "Me? Scully, you're the  
closest friend he has. If he won't talk to you, what makes you think  
he'd talk to me?" 

Scully shrugged. "Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I'm too close.  
Sometimes a little distance can be just what you need. I know that he  
respects you, sir. It's certainly worth a try." 

Silently asking what he'd just gotten himself into, Skinner reluctantly  
acquiesced. "I'll make the offer, Scully. But I refuse to push him into  
revealing anything if he's not ready." 

Scully walked back to the elevators and hit the down button. She turned  
back to face Skinner, an expression of amusement causing the corners of  
her mouth to twitch slightly. 

"Sir, not even an assistant director of the FBI could push Mulder into  
saying anything against his will. Trust me on this one." 

The truth in her words hit home, and Skinner found himself chuckling  
softly the whole way back to Mulder's room. His good humor must have  
been evident; for Mulder gazed at him curiously as he made his way to  
the chair by the bed and sank into it. 

"Something you'd like to share, sir?" 

Skinner met his gaze, still smirking a little. "Just glad you're alive  
to hunt liver-eating mutants another day, Mulder. That's worth smiling  
about, isn't it?" 

"Let's throw a party." A joke on the surface, but a deep sadness at the  
foundation. 

"Sounds more like a wake is in order," Skinner replied quietly. "How  
about you, Mulder? Something you'd like to share?" 

"Meaning?" 

"Meaning for a man who just came out a winner, I keep getting the  
distinct feeling you're conceding defeat." 

Skinner was prepared for just about anything but the response he  
received. White hot fury, so intense that Mulder's entire body thrummed  
with the force of it. 

"Came out a *winner*? Why, because I walked out of this with my life?  
Forgive me if I don't see the correlation." 

"What are you saying, Mulder? That your life doesn't matter?" 

Mulder's clenched his fists around the blanket as if to keep himself  
from using them. "I'm saying that it isn't *my* life! That it never has  
been!" With a sudden shift of mood that was alarming, he slumped down on  
the mattress, all traces of anger replaced by weary resignation. "I'm  
finally beginning to realize it may never be." 

Skinner shook his head, completely confused by his agent's words.  
"You've lost me, Mulder. What are you saying?" 

"I'm saying that I'm tired of being manipulated -- of being allowed the  
illusion that my choices are my own, only to have that illusion  
shattered repeatedly." 

Understanding flooded Skinner. "You're upset because they used you to  
falsely convict Cardow." 

"Yes! No. I mean, it's so much more than that. I've lived my whole life  
a slave to a name that I'm no longer sure is mine. When Cardow told me  
he knew who my father was, all I could do was wonder if he meant Bill  
Mulder or that cigarette smoking SOB. But as bad as it may be to  
question if my name is my own, it's worse to wonder if my actions are." 

Skinner was shocked to see something very close to tears in Mulder's  
eyes as he continued. 

"Scully's cancer. Dallas. And now Cardow. He told Reardon I was  
important to them. Well, I refuse to be their tool. I'll give up the  
X-Files first." 

Skinner clenched his jaw, struggling for the words to penetrate Mulder's  
darkness. The man had a knack for glossing over his many successes only  
to focus on the failures. 

"When I went to 'Nam, I was certain I was doing the right thing. I'd  
heard all the horror stories about the evils of communism and  
oppression, and I was determined to do my part to overcome them. To  
uphold justice and ensure personal freedom." He chuckled bitterly. "The  
only problem was, no one mentioned that some of those evil communists  
would be women and children, and that I'd be required to blow the head  
off a fifteen-year-old boy. Or that 'police action' was really just a  
polite term for war and I'd watch all my buddies die before I made it  
home again." 

"I was manipulated, Mulder. I was only given the information that would  
encourage me to enlist. And sometimes it still makes me angry. But I  
have to tell myself that I operated as best I could under the  
information I was given. I can only hold myself responsible for my own  
actions. You see where I'm going with this, Mulder?" 

Mulder had folded his arms defensively across his chest, and he refused  
to meet Skinner's eyes. "It isn't the same." 

"The situation is different, yes, but the principle is the same. You  
were provided with information. You acted on that information in good  
faith. What else could you have done, Mulder? Even knowing what you do  
now, can you honestly say you did anything wrong? Did you make any  
mistakes? Miss any vital pieces of evidence?" 

Mulder lifted his eyes to search Skinner's face. "I want to believe what  
you're saying. I need to." 

"Then believe it. I don't care whose genetic material was responsible  
for your conception; it doesn't change who you are. Mulder, I've worked  
with you and I've seen you make those bastards sweat. None of that was  
by their design. If you quit now, they win." 

The soft smile that spread over the man's face was a total surprise, and  
Skinner wondered exactly what he'd said to provoke it. 

"Yeah," he acknowledged quietly. "I've heard that before." 

Mulder must have achieved some sort of catharsis, since fatigue now hit  
him abruptly and with great force. He sank into the mattress, eyes  
struggling to remain focused. Skinner glanced at his watch. Forty-five  
minutes. Mulder had just set a new record. He grinned to himself. 

"Get some sleep, Mulder," he said aloud. "I'll have Scully save that  
water for when you wake up." 

"You'll tell her that when she gives you the papers, right sir?" Mulder  
said, suppressing a yawn. 

"Papers? What are you..." 

Mulder's eyes gleamed under their heavy lids. "Busted." 

Skinner scowled. "All right, so there were no papers. Satisfied?" 

"Only with the fact that you're a lousy liar," Mulder mumbled. "Guess  
that bodes well for our little discussion. I can live with the fact that  
you and Scully were plotting against me." 

This time Skinner actually allowed Mulder to see his grin. "Not against  
you, Mulder. For you. Count on it." 

Mulder didn't answer, having lost the struggle to remain awake. But he didn't really need to. The ghost of a smile on his agent's lips told Skinner all he needed to know. 


End file.
